Beyond the Green Baize Door
by charleygirl
Summary: Tales from the Opera Populaire. Events may not have transpired as you remember; vignettes, missing scenes and retellings. #44: Epilogue. Where do we go from here?
1. All He Surveys

**Author's Note:**

I intend this fic to be a _Phantom_ version of my Sherlock Holmes series _Jottings from a Doctor's Journal_: a collection of standalone scenes and situations. My main influence is the stage musical, but I have picked bits and pieces from elsewhere.

In this particular piece, I've adopted Madame giry's unofficial first name of Antoinette as I couldn't think of anything that suited her better. I like to think of her relationship with Erik as somewhere in between that of the movie and the novel.

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><p><strong>ALL HE SURVEYS<strong>

Those milling about down on the stage looked so insignificant.

From a catwalk high above, the shadowy figure known as the Phantom of the Opera watched the proceedings and ground his teeth in annoyance. Auditions for the corps de ballet would usually be beneath his notice, but as the current manager, that idiot Lefevre, had recently seen fit to engage the services of Carlotta Guidicelli, the singing hippopotamus, as leading soprano, Erik had decided that he should keep control of at least _something_ in his theatre. Antoinette Giry suggested that Lefevre had taken Carlotta on against Erik's express instructions because he was more frightened of the overbearing diva than of the Opera Ghost, an insinuation which Erik did not find amusing but, having seen the awful woman in action, could well believe.

And so, here he was, observing from above and becoming more and more bored by the moment as yet another eager but ultimately inconsequential hopeful twirled and trilled before Lefevre, the conductor Monsieur Reyer and Madame Giry herself. They were all so keen and in the first flush of youth, no doubt blissfully unaware of the years of hard work which awaited them before they had a chance of even ten seconds in the limelight. From their first day with the corps they would discover what a grind it was, a far cry from the glamour they expected.

Antoinette's daughter Meg had already been accepted – having studied dance with her mother almost every day of her young life and practically lived in the opera house since she was old enough to walk, her audition was a mere formality. Pretty, poised and possessed of a sweet if untrained voice, Erik could not object to little Giry's selection. He could see her now, huddled with some of the older ballerinas in the wings, watching proceedings with wide eyes.

All of the other so far successful girls were unremarkable and of scant interest to him. Though he kept an eye on the ballet, it was the music which really mattered as far as Erik was concerned. The opera could do without its dancers, but without lady music it would be nothing and it was his responsibility to ensure that she was respected and treated with the delicacy she deserved. Therefore he had been careful to train Lefevre to trust the suggestions made by the Opera Ghost over his own ignorant inclinations. It was because of Erik that the Populaire was currently riding high in public estimation, and just recently he decided that he was due some sort of reparation for the hard work he put in to making it a success. Lefevre had nearly had a coronary at the thought of paying twenty thousand francs a month to a spirit, but he was eventually persuaded to see the sense in it. Erik had made sure that he altered the memorandum books to that effect, just in case a change in management was less amenable.

Deciding that he could find better uses for his time than hanging around in the flies watching the selection of the new crop of ballet rats, he began to descend. Thankfully, all the stage hands were more interested in what was happening out in front to look above them. Erik was glad of this – the senior fly man, Buquet, was getting far too interested in the doings of the Phantom and they had had several close calls recently. So close that Buquet's ghost stories now included a reasonably accurate description, much to Erik's chagrin.

He had reached the lower catwalk and was heading towards the crawlspace which would take him into the backstage area when quite suddenly a clear, pure voice stopped him in his tracks. Gazing down, he saw that a new girl had taken the stage, a rather thin, awkward child with a plain dove grey gown and unruly brown ringlets. Her face was tilted upwards and her eyes closed as she sang, a tear forming at the corners. Though he did not recognise the song, the voice cut through him right to the black and bitter heart he harboured in his breast. Though it was a little rough and would need expert tuition to reach its full potential, there was no denying that which was almost painfully obvious: the girl sang like an _angel_.

Quickly, Erik located Madame Giry. The ballet mistress, austere as always in her widow's weeds, stood back in the wings watching this latest candidate critically. She did not move a muscle but must have sensed his presence from long experience as he dropped silently to the floor behind her, disappearing immediately into the shadows.

He pitched his voice so that it reached her ears alone. "Who is she?"

"Christine Daae." Her lips barely twitched but he heard her. "From a Swedish family, I believe."

"Daae... Daae... the daughter of the violinist?" Erik never forgot a name, and he certainly remembered the virtuoso performance of Gustave Daae at the opera house nearly five years before. "I read of his death recently."

"Quite possibly. I did not enquire." Madame Giry risked a quick glance over her shoulder. "Why the sudden interest in my ballet rats, Erik? It is most unlike you to grace us with your presence."

He ignored the gibe. "You must make sure that she is accepted, Antoinette," he said. "Do not allow those two fools to overrule you."

"There is no danger of that," she assured him, and he believed her. Madame Giry was famed throughout the company for her will of iron – no one, from the manager to the lowest member of the company, dared to defy her. "But you do realise it will look odd? See how she moves – she is like one of those baby giraffes, all legs and none of them working together."

"I am sure you can drum that out of her. But it matters not; it is her voice which is important, and it is a voice which needs the skills of the best tutor in France."

Antoinette snorted. "And I am sure you know just where to find him."

Erik drew his cloak tighter around himself and slid further into the darkness. "Oh, yes, Madame," his voice whispered, hanging in the air though he himself was gone, "She has a future far beyond an obscure place in the chorus.

"This I promise you. And when I am done, Paris... no, _Europe_, will ring to the name of La Daae."


	2. A Wonderful Idea

**A WONDERFUL IDEA**

'_Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.'_

_Fine words_, thought Erik as he paced back and forth across his drawing room deep down in the fifth cellar, _a threat worthy of the Opera Ghost_. But what, exactly, would a disaster beyond their imagination entail? While it was true that he did not expect even idiots like Andre and Firmin to flout his instructions, it did no harm to be prepared for every eventuality.

Carlotta's presence as the Countess instead of Christine could be easily dealt with – the dreadful woman croaked enough already, so much so that proving it to everyone else would be child's play. And as for a presence in his box... they would not _dare_. But if they did... a few well-chosen words in the ear of the trespasser usually had them running down the hall, shrieking with terror. He chuckled at the thought. It had been some time since he had last scared unwary patrons.

These were hardly disasters, though. No, he would need something more spectacular should he be forced to make his point, something more... _operatic_. Yes, operatic, that was fitting.

But what, precisely?

He thumped the piano keys in frustration as he passed it for the twenty-sixth time. When the discordant echo eventually died away, he became aware of sounds from above. A particularly loud screech made him wince and he knew that rehearsals had begun. Listening for a moment, Erik turned on his heel; snatching up cloak and hat from their hooks he stalked from the house.

Maybe some time spent in the world above would provide inspiration.

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><p>The transition from the silence of the cellars to the cacophony of an operatic rehearsal had ceased to affect Erik many years ago. Thankfully, he had learned how to selectively ignore any noise which bothered him, which was a very handy skill to possess when continually having to put up with the present company. As he made his way through the concealed passageways to Box Five, he made an mental note once more to press those two fools in charge for Carlotta's removal – she was arguing loudly with Monsieur Reyer and the acting manager over a point in Act II, waving her fan about and nearly smacking Piangi in the face as he attempted to calm her down.<p>

"I don't-a care what you think!" she shouted. "You expect an artist like-a me to sing such... such... _spazzatura_! _Immondizia_! _Non degno della mia attenzione_!"

"Signora, it _is_ in the script..." Laurent, the acting manager, said, wringing his hands in desperation. "We cannot - "

"Then we will-a rewrite the script! You!" Carlotta pointed at Reyer with her increasingly lethal fan. "You will-a go away and-a give me something better than-a this!"

The conductor glared. "Signora, I am not a librettist, and I do not have time to do that which is completely unnecessary. I suggest - "

He did not get to voice that suggestion as the prima donna shouted him down with a tirade of incomprehensible Italian. Erik gritted his teeth. Opera was supposed to be theatrical, yes, melodramatic even, but that woman's histrionics were becoming utterly unbearable. There was no question about it: she had to go! And if then managers were still reluctant he would quite happily perform the deed himself!

Moving to the front of the box but taking care to remain in shadow, his eyes searched for Christine. There she was, standing with the chorus and watching Carlotta's antics with a resigned expression. The rehearsal was partial-dress, and Erik noticed with mounting anger that she was wearing the breeches and stockings of the silent page, Serafimo. After all the work they had done! His hands clenched into fists. _Fools! Ingrates! Defy me, will you..._

Madame Giry was there, trying to keep time for her ballerinas and failing miserably as Carlotta's complaints increased in volubility and volume. As though motivated by some sixth sense, the ballet mistress turned her head and looked straight at Box Five. Erik withdrew, melting back into the darkness just as there was a clattering of footsteps on the stairs to the stage and those two simpletons of management appeared in the middle of the chaos, calling for quiet.

Silence reigned for approximately two minutes. Then there was a pregnant pause before everyone began talking at once. Erik groaned and resisted the urge to cover his ears. He slid out of the door and into the opulent, red-carpeted corridor behind the boxes. A moment later, two workmen, obviously taking a short-cut and ignoring the fact that they were not allowed front of house unless absolutely necessary, came past, forcing him to duck hurriedly into one of the many hidey-holes he kept around the building. This one was in the base of one of the gilded statues, and he could see the pair quite clearly through a gap in the base.

"I don't know," one of them, a short, cocky-looking individual with a swagger, said, "Clean the chandelier, 'e says. Does 'e even have any idea what a big job that is? A week's work at the least, and 'e wants it done by tomorrow night!"

His tall, lanky companion nodded. "They think it's easy, runnin' a theatre," he observed morosely. "More money than sense, they 'ave."

"Should've given us the job, eh?" The first one nudged him in the ribs with an elbow. "Think about it: place like this, full o' nobs with too much cash... this time next year we could be millionaires!"

"Won't be nothin' if that chandelier falls on someone's head. Chain's rusted through, but they'll blame us if it comes down..."

Their complaints faded away as they vanished down the stairs. Their conversation, however facile, had, however, given Erik an idea. Swiftly, he made his way to the very top of the auditorium, where the great chandelier was secured. Unlit at present and gleaming dully in the weak afternoon sunlight that filtered through the dome, it looked far less impressive than on the gala evenings when it was often the star of the show. Seen from such close proximity, it was grimy and indeed rusting, the chains with which it was fixed to the ceiling appearing none too safe. Normally, a note to the managers would point this out and order them to have it fixed immediately, but on this occasion OG thought better of his usual tactics.

He reached out and tested the rope which ran from the chandelier to a tethering ring above the balcony. There were several feet of fraying hemp looped around a hook beneath the ring, enough to lower the huge contraption down into the auditorium for maintenance. Responding to the sudden movement, the chandelier creaked and swung, glass tinkling against metal. From down below, he heard a shout of "He's here! The Phantom!" but it was almost immediately drowned out by the raised voices of Andre and Firmin as they tried to reason with their irate diva.

_This is a disaster waiting to happen_, Erik mused silently, and then his face creased in a smile behind his mask. He tugged slightly on the rope again. _A disaster beyond your imagination indeed..._

Come _Il Muto_'s opening night, the Phantom would indeed be there, and he would be prepared.


	3. Home Truths

**HOME TRUTHS**

"Erik, what _is_ this?"

Madame Giry pulled the heavy red curtain away from the mannequin, more than a little disturbed by the thing's existence. Lonely though he doubtless was in his solitary life below the Opera, to find that he was reduced to fashioning a likeness of Christine Daae for company and who knew what else worried her more than she would wish to admit. It was an exquisite piece of work, and one that had probably taken countless hours, but still...

"I do not remember inviting you into my home, Madame. Indeed, I cannot recall the last time you dared to beard the lion in his den," the Phantom said in an icy tone. Immediately after answering the door he had sat down at the pipe organ with his back to her, pen in hand over a stack of manuscript paper. He carefully turned one of the pages. "As I assume this is not a social call, the only explanation for your presence here must be that you intend to read me a lecture. Do not forget that I am not one of your little ballet rats to scold and intimidate."

"That may be so, but you are doing some intimidating of your own. Christine Daae is a member of the corps de ballet, and is therefore under my care." Antoinette paced across the floor, her cane marking time with each hollow tap upon the stone. "I allowed this charade to begin with because it seemed to help the poor creature, and there is no denying the miracles you have achieved with her voice, but..."

"'But', Madame?" The hand turning the pages paused.

"This has gone on long enough. Play your tricks with the managers all you like – I care little enough for them – but do not continue to deceive Christine. She should know that there is no Angel of Music – she is too old for such games!"

Slowly, Erik stood. His spine beneath the finely-tailored suit jacket was ramrod straight, and his long, thin fingers clenched around the pen he still held. "You would have me break the illusion and reveal the truth?" he demanded, his beautiful, terrible voice low and dangerous. "Christine loves her angel. Do you think that she would feel the same way were she to know that her angel is nothing more than a man with the face of a demon? Do you think she would love _this_?" Whirling to face her he tore off his mask, flinging it aside and revealing his horrific visage in all its glory.

It had been years since Madame Giry had seen his deformity, the last time on that evening when first they met, when he had come to her aid after she was attacked by a gang of ruffians outside the theatre. Before that, she had memories of a face half-glimpsed in the shadows of a tent at the fairground. Time had not improved it, and the anger which currently twisted the distorted features did indeed give him the aspect of a creature raised from the bowels of hell. It was a truly horrifying vision.

In spite of this, though, Antoinette did not flinch. She had always taken great care never to show fear before him, even though she was well aware of his capabilities. On that night, nearly a decade ago now, she had watched him kill two men with barely more than a flick of the wrist.

He stood there, breathing heavily, his mismatched gaze fixed on her own, before, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the rage vanished back inside and his shoulders slumped. Looking defeated, he walked slowly back to the organ and sat once more. "I cannot tell her, Annie," he said quietly. "How can I show her this rotting carcass? She would fly from me in a moment."

Picking up the porcelain mask from where it had fallen on the Persian rug, she went to his side. When she held the mask out to him he made no move to take it and so she laid it on the organ, on top of the pile of paper. The sheets were covered in scrawled staves and notes, whole sections crossed violently through and hastily rewritten as he evidently tried to get the music from his mind as quickly as possible before it disappeared forever.

"She has a right to know, Erik," she told him gently. "You have been a great comfort to her through her grief, but sooner or later she will begin to ask questions. What will you do then?"

"Please." The word was breathed, little more than a whisper. Erik did not turn to look at her. "There is little enough light in my life. Will you take from me that which I have?"

"Erik." She crouched down, trying to see his face. "This will only end in tears. You _must_ see that."

"Then it will hardly be different to any other experience of mine." He finally reached a shaky hand for the mask. By the time he had replaced it, the vulnerable man beneath was gone and the Phantom had returned. His voice was commanding. "Leave me."

"Erik - "

"Have you suddenly become deaf, Madame?" His eyes flashed furiously. "Leave my home. I do not require your presence here."

Antoinette bent her head. "Very well." Stiffly, she climbed to her feet and made her way to the door. Once there, she hesitated, and turned back to see him apparently engrossed in his music. "I want you to know that I only say this because I do not wish to see you hurt – either of you."

He paused, hands raised above the ivory keys. "Your altruism does you credit, Madame, but I fear it will be of little use to me. Return to your petit rats and your over-curious daughter and leave me in peace."

With a sad sigh, she entered the tunnel which would take her back to the lake and eventually the world above. Before the door swung shut behind her, however, she thought she heard him murmur,

"Leave me in hell. That is, after all, where I was always meant to be."

It was in that moment Madame Giry knew she would do all she could to prevent the tragedy that was coming. And she also knew that whatever she did would not be enough.


	4. Oh, Daddy

**Author's Note:**

Thank you to KayMoon24, reflekshun and Weaver Blyx for your reviews - they are very much appreciated. Here's some Erik and Christine at last. :)

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><p><strong>OH, DADDY<strong>

"Christine... _Christine_..."

Erik stopped singing as he reached the mirror and peered through into the dressing room beyond. As befitted a room which held a well-founded reputation for being haunted - a reputation he had taken care to foster since he had begun teaching Christine – at first appearance it was completely empty. He felt anger rise and tried to push it away. In past weeks his pupil had been occasionally been late for their lessons, detained by Madame Giry after ballet practise or by giggling conversations with Antoinette's daughter Meg, but she bore his scolding meekly and had been contrite afterwards. He had not expected her to dally again and felt the anger replaced by twinge of disappointment. Maintaining the illusion of strict but kindly Angel of Music was not easy when his thin patience was often stretched to breaking point. Though she was talented, Christine was still a young girl with a girl's flightiness and he was unused to dealing with anything but the complete and utter commitment which had always been his own attitude.

There was a sniffle and a hiccup from the dressing room, and Erik realised with a start that she _was_ there after all – somehow he had completely overlooked her. Her small figure was hunched over on the couch in the corner, looking in the dark little more than a bundle of old clothes. A cushion was crushed in her arms as her shoulders heaved with barely-suppressed sobs, her tumbling curls hiding her face from view. Erik felt a strange sensation in his chest, one which later he could only imagine had been his shrivelled old heart moving with sympathy for the poor girl's plight. He had not thought himself capable of such emotions in a long time. Instinctively he reached out to her, only to feel the cold surface of the mirror beneath his fingertips.

"Christine," he said softly, throwing his voice to the other side of the room, "Why do you cry, child?"

Her head shot up like that of a startled rabbit and now he could see her red-rimmed eyes, her trembling rosebud lips as she turned up the lantern she had brought with her. Tears had traced their way down her cheeks, shining in the dim light. "Angel?" she asked hesitantly.

"I am here, Christine. Whatever is the matter?"

Futilely, she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "You will think me very foolish..."

Erik pitched his voice towards her left ear, light and gentle. "Why should I do that, my dear?"

"Because I miss my father. Even though I know I should be happy that he is in Heaven with the angels I still wish he were here with me now." Christine's mouth twisted in abject misery and she bent her head, her voice cracking. "I miss him _so_ much!"

Again Erik felt that strange tightness in his chest. Although he could not understand how it felt to lose a beloved parent, having never been shown even the most basic of care and affection by his own, since she arrived at the Opera it was painfully evident how lonely Christine felt without her father beside her. Loneliness was a creature Erik knew very well indeed, though he would rarely admit it to anyone, most of all himself. The thought of its cold, icy tendrils winding their way around Christine's soul, sucking the joy from her as it had done his during the countless years he had spent alone, years which sometimes seemed without end, was one he could not bear to entertain. "Your father is still with you, Christine, even though you cannot see him," he said now, hoping to reassure her. "He would be very proud of you."

She sniffed. "Do you really think so?"

Erik's fingers brushed the glass once more. He suddenly had an insane urge to run them through her riotous brown curls, to stroke them gently, a desire to take her in his arms and comfort her, telling her over and over that she was not alone in the world. Clenching his fist and pulling it sharply away from the mirror, he mentally shook himself. What a sentimental old fool he was becoming! He took a deep breath, trying to reassert his heavenly persona. "Yes, child, I do," he said, and it was the truth. "You should not doubt it."

"I can't help it, Angel," Christine murmured, turning her gaze to the ruined handkerchief she twisted in her lap. "I know you think I have talent but I feel clumsy and awkward out there on the stage; Madame Giry despairs of me, I know she does."

Cursing Antoinette under his breath for being too hard on the delicate girl, Erik threw his voice to sound as though he were standing right behind her and said lightly, "I do more than think it, Christine, I know it. Your voice will take you far."

"I'm scared, Angel. I'm all alone with no one to guide me and I don't know what to do. It frightens me!" Unwittingly, she looked straight at her own reflection and through it at the man concealed behind. Her eyes were big and round, her lower lip wobbling as she fought to contain fresh tears.

She looked so utterly lost that this time the heart Erik had always believed to be dead did more than just move; it nearly broke in two. "Oh, _Christine_..." he whispered.

"Papa, why did you have to leave me?" she asked plaintively, turning her eyes to the ceiling. "You always promised not to leave me alone!"

"You are not alone, Christine, you have your Angel," Erik told her, not realising what he had said until the words were out of his mouth. Though he would have given anything at that moment to be able to dry her tears, seeing her cry paining him deep inside, surely this was giving more, much more than he had ever intended when he began their lessons? Exactly what was this young woman coming to mean to him, that he was close to abandoning the habits of a lifetime and allowing himself to become emotionally involved with another human being? He had been reviled and hunted all his life, shunned by anyone towards whom he had been fool enough to reach – why should Christine be any different?

Maybe, just maybe, she was. She sat up straighter as he spoke, her hands clasped and her little face lit up with hope. "Oh, do you really mean that, Angel? Will you stay by my side?"

Never having been faced with such a request, once again Erik's traitorous lips answered before his brain could fully engage. "Of course. Your Angel will always be with you, watching over you. As long as you are here, you will be under my protection."

"Do you promise?" she asked, sounding like the child she still to some extent was.

This time he told himself that he could think; if he wished he could conjure sweet words to beguile and convince but not ultimately bind. After all, he had hardly been truthful to her before, so why should he not make such a promise? It was not as if he would have to keep it – within a few years of his tuition, her gift would inevitably take her beyond the Populaire and away from his gaze. It would be so easy to say the words, never meaning them. So easy, if he had been dealing with anyone but Christine.

Erik looked at her, at the happiness that suddenly shone in her eyes, and he knew that he could not lie to her, not now. She needed him; how could he deny her? Though he knew that once he replied there would be no going back for him, there was only one thing he could say:

"Yes, Christine," he breathed, "I promise. I will never leave you."

She smiled; the first genuine smile he had seen since she arrived. And it was for him! In his long life no one had ever looked at Erik that way, with such love and devotion. No one had ever made him feel needed, feel _wanted_.

A little voice in the back of his mind cried out: _What have you done_? He ignored it.

It was too late. Erik was lost.


	5. Nowhere To Turn

**Author's Note:**

I just want to say that I'm ambivalent about Raoul - I don't really like or dislike him, he doesn't really register on my radar. However, it does disturb me somewhat the he thinks it's perfectly acceptable to use his fiancee as bait to catch an apparently homicidal lunatic...

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><p><strong>NOWHERE TO TURN<strong>

Emerging from the managers' office, Raoul looked desperately right and left along the corridor until he spotted the hem of her blue gown vanishing around the corner.

"Christine! Christine, _wait_!"

He gave chase, and caught up with her just as she was entering her dressing room. She would have shut the door on him but he stuck his foot between it and the frame, forcing her to allow him to enter. Turning her back on him she paced to the middle of the room, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though she was in pain.

"Christine, my darling, what is the matter? What has upset you so?" he asked, bewildered by her behaviour. He had just hit upon the perfect way to trap the Phantom – surely she should be pleased to think that within a few short weeks she would be able to breathe freely at last!

She laughed, shortly, but there was no humour in the sound. "You really have to ask?" There was a pause, during which he did not answer, confused by the question. After several seconds of silence her shoulders slumped and she said, "Go away, Raoul."

"No, I will not." Quickly he crossed the room, taking hold of her upper arms as she would not let him near her hands. Her face was tilted downwards, her gaze on the floor; when he touched a finger beneath her chin to raise it to meet his she refused. "Christine, I have never seen you act like this. It is that fiend's influence, it must be; you are still under his spell, even after all this time! What has he done to you?"

"How do you know what is normal for me, Raoul?" she demanded, finally lifting her head to look him full in the face. Her brown eyes were shining with unshed tears but her chin and mouth were set with a determination which gave her the aspect of a stranger. "Until the gala the last time we saw each other was when we were children! I am no longer your Little Lotte; I may still be a child to some, but I have grown since then and I have had to face the prospect of a life alone – can you blame me for accepting comfort when it was offered, even comfort from that man you just called a 'fiend'? You have never even met him! He was my Angel of Music, was kind to me, and supported me when no one else would! Am I to just abandon him?"

"Christine, he has mesmerised you, filled your head with nonsense. Remember the chandelier – he could have killed you!"

"Oh, that horrible chandelier!" Christine threw up her hands in exasperation and turned away from him towards the mirror. "The chain was old and rusting – even the workmen said that it was an accident waiting to happen."

Raoul recalled the Phantom's insane laughter as he released the rope and allowed the chandelier to drop towards the stage and very much doubted that it had truly been an accident, but he did not say so. They stood there for some moments, Christine's eyes fixed on the looking glass before her, as though she saw something in her reflection that he could not. "And what about Joseph Buquet? Was that an accident, too?" he asked eventually. She said nothing, and so he dared to broach the subject he found most distasteful: "Do you... do you care for him, Christine? Despite everything he has done?"

Christine shook her head sharply. "Yes... no... I don't _know_! I am so _confused_, and this ridiculous charade is only making it worse. Do you honestly think that you will get away with it? He knows everything that happens in this theatre; you will not take him by surprise, but none of you can see that! You are all so obsessed with catching the Phantom that you are blind to anything else around you!"

"Christine, please - "

"You have made this plan, and yet you lay the responsibility on _my_ shoulders! None of you will let me think for myself! I don't know what to do, how to act. I have no one to turn to; I can't keep anything straight in my head because there is always too much noise! You, Erik, the rest of them... I am pulled every which way and I _hate_ it, Raoul!" Her hands clenched in her hair, pulling at it in her frustration.

"We must go through with this, Christine," he said, gently laying a hand on her arm. He attempted to meet her eyes in the mirror but she looked away. "We cannot allow him to win."

"Do you know how the big game hunters in India catch tigers?" she enquired, much to his surprise. Before he could answer, she continued, "They tether a kid beneath a tree, then hide in the tree and wait for their bait to bring out the tiger. When the tiger takes the kid, they shoot it." She turned to face him. "Is that what I am in all this, Raoul? Bait?"

"If we let him live, we will never be free of him. Do you truly want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, wondering if he is there?"

She made no comment, instead choosing to attack him with another question. "Do you love me, Raoul?"

"Do I - ?" Astonished, he took an involuntary step backwards. "Of course I do! How can you doubt me?"

"Because if you truly loved me you would not put me in this impossible position!" she cried. "How could you do that to me, Raoul? How _could_ you? Erik may be many things, but he would never deliberately put me in danger, especially not so he could score points against a rival!"

"Score points...? Christine, he is a madman, capable of anything! You _know_ that!"

"Do I?" She looked sad all of a sudden. "I don't understand anything anymore." Her voice dropped to a whisper and Raoul only just caught her next words, "Perhaps if we were treated as he has been we would be mad too..."

In desperation, he finally captured her hands, bringing them to his lips. "My darling, we have no choice. The Phantom must be stopped, for all our sakes."

Christine regarded him for a long moment. "No, there are choices, but for your own ends you decide to give me none," she said, pulling away and walking to her wardrobe. Taking out her cloak, she settled its blue velvet folds around her shoulders. "I need some time alone, Raoul, time to think."

"Where are you going?" He followed her to the door, noticing with a pang that she had wound a red scarf around her neck. Perhaps it was the same one he had rescued from the sea all those years ago. Oh, how he wished they could return to that time, when they were happy and free and there were no masked maniacs dogging their footsteps. How much simpler life had been back then!

She sighed. "To talk to the only person in this world I have ever been able to trust.

"My father."


	6. Unmasked

**Author's Note: **

Yes, it's been done many times before, but this is my version...

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><p><strong>UNMASKED<strong>

"...in time... in time you might have learned to see the truth... learned to see the man behind the monster... but not now... not now..."

Lying where she had fallen as she made a futile attempt to escape from him, Christine watched, horrified, as the man she had believed to be her beautiful Angel of Music crumpled into a heap before her. He hid his terrible face in his hands, his shoulders quivering as he fought to contain the hoarse sobs which broke from his throat. Only moments before he had been a screaming, raging demon, calling her the vilest of names, his skeletal fingers reaching for her, fingers she had only just managed to evade.

How could this have happened? What had gone so spectacularly, dreadfully wrong? Last night she had been on top of the world, elated from her moment of triumph on the stage, excited about meeting Raoul again after all this time, and now... she was trapped below the ground with a madman, and man who had lied to her and deceived her, a man who somehow lived undetected and all alone beneath the theatre. A man who could only be...

The Phantom of the Opera.

Christine's world had turned on its head. Her father had promised to send her the Angel of Music, but now that promise had become nothing more than a bad dream, shown to be the childish fantasy it was. She had been so stupid to believe, so foolish to trust someone who came to her in the night and never showed his face, someone who though strict had seemed so kind and gentle but about whom she knew nothing. When she dreamed about her angel, trying to conjure his appearance in her mind's eye, never in a thousand years would she have imagined the creature before her; a creature which, as she had ripped the mask away, barely even seemed human.

Never had she seen anything like the face which was revealed. While half was unmarked, and could almost have been handsome, the right side was twisted and ravaged and scarred, appearing to belong more to a decaying corpse than a living, breathing person. A scream came from somewhere far away, a scream which, she realised dimly, was her own. He turned on her, lashing out, his face contorted with such fury, and without thinking she ran, trying desperately to get away from the nightmare in which she was enmeshed. But try as she might she could not find the door, and he came after her.

"_Damn_ you!" he yelled, hurling books and papers across the room, smashing whatever came to hand, "Prying Pandora... Lying Delilah! Is _this_ what you wanted to see? _Is it_?"

Christine did not think she had ever been more frightened in her life, the anger radiating from him more terrifying even than his face. In those seconds, seconds that seemed to stretch into eternity, she believed all of the tales she had heard about the Phantom, all of the silly stories she had thought Buquet created to scare the ballet rats. She tripped and fell, cowering into a corner as he loomed over her, spitting insults, and she truly thought that he was going to kill her. What else would the Phantom have done?

But now... now he knelt in front of her, the dreaded Opera Ghost gone as quickly as he had appeared. He was neither phantom nor demon; just a man, and a man weeping as though his heart was breaking. Christine would have had to be made of stone to ignore such a pitiful object. The pain and sadness in every muffled sob brought tears to her own eyes. Slowly, hesitantly, she sat up, and, wary of him as she would be of a lion with a thorn in its paw, she reached out, offering the mask.

For the longest moment, he did not move. Then, gradually, he raised his head, thankfully keeping one hand over the disfigured side of his face. There was wonder and confusion in his watery eyes, eyes which were so strange, one dark as night and the other the palest, clearest blue. Phantom no more, he looked like a lost little boy as he stared at the mask in her hand. Thin, trembling fingers extended to take it, curling around the porcelain. For the barest second, they brushed hers, their touch icy cold, before he pulled away as though she had burned him. He remained on his knees, hunched over, and when he spoke his voice was low and cracked.

"Why, Christine? Why?"

She had no answer for him. He called her Pandora, and like Pandora she had allowed her curiosity to rule her. Her cheeks burned with shame at the sudden realisation that though the Angel of Music had been a deception, he had comforted and supported her, had given her voice its wings, and now she repaid him by tearing away his defences. Now she could only hope that her actions would not have the far-reaching consequences Pandora had unleashed when she opened the jar given to her by Zeus.

When Christine did not speak, her Angel, the Phantom, gathered himself up. All trace of the weeping, vulnerable man had suddenly vanished. Replacing the mask with one swift motion he held out his hand to her. "Come, we must return you to the world above. Those two idiots who call themselves managers will doubtless be tearing the place apart in pursuit of you."

No words passed between them as he hurried her across the lake and through the twisting passageways which lingered in her mind as half-remembered shadows. As they approached a rectangle of light, she was perplexed for a moment before, as they came closer, she could see her dressing room through a filmy veil, flowers on every surface and her pointe shoes still lying on the floor beneath the dressing table where she had left them. With a thrill, she realised that they must be on the other side of the great mirror; it was not a dream, then, he really _had_ come to her that way. He pressed a hidden switch and the mirror swung open – Christine did not even register that there was someone else in the room until her Angel released her wrist and turned to go, leaving her in the arms of Madame Giry.

"Erik?" the ballet mistress asked. "What has - "

"Look after her," he replied curtly, and with a flick of his cloak he was gone.

"Angel, _wait_!" Christine cried. She tried to pull away, but Madame Giry held her tightly. The mirror closed behind him and at last Christine's own tears fell. She wrenched herself free and fell to her knees, her reflection mocking her with its very existence. She could not see him, could not even feel his presence as she had done so often in the past. Reaching out a shaking hand to touch the cold surface of the glass, she swallowed the lump in her throat and whispered, "Angel, please don't leave me! You promised not to leave me..."


	7. Chasing Death

**CHASING DEATH**

Christine looked around her in confusion.

In the wake of the Phantom's entrance everyone was talking, loudly and over one another. Women were looking faint, men angry; Monsieur Andre stood dumbly holding the leather satchel which contained the Ghost's opera while Monsieur Firmin just muttered under his breath. Raoul had gone racing after Madame Giry, who seemed anxious to leave the foyer, and the two of them had vanished into crowd leaving Christine alone. It was as though she were tainted by her association with the Phantom; no one would come near her, instead directing pitying glances her way. Carlotta was watching her, whispering something to Piangi behind her fan, something which made the usually kindly tenor turn wondering eyes on Christine.

There was no sign of Erik. Aided by his magician's tricks, he had returned to his tunnels below, to the darkness that was his home. Christine's hand stole to her throat, to the place where her engagement ring had hung until a few minutes ago, and she knew that she had to speak to him, to demand its return. Never had she stood up to him before, quailing beneath the force of his anger, but in this instance she could do nothing else. This time he had gone too far, presumed too much, and he had to be told. There was no one else who could confront him. Turning, she ran from the opulent room, hearing the mutters and sibilant whispers behind her but for once in her life caring little for them, heading for the one place in the Opera which had always been her sanctuary.

The mirror was still open a crack, revealing that though he may have favoured trap doors through which to dramatically disappear, Erik had emerged from the depths this way. Christine was grateful that he had not checked to make sure that the glass was properly closed; it was unusual for him to be so careless, but she had never discovered how to operate the pivot for herself. Now she slipped through the gap, snatching up a candle from her dressing table on the way and feeling for the niche in the tunnel wall in which Erik kept a box of matches. The flame flared into life, sending shadows dancing over the rocky walls and the icy caress of fear down Christine's spine.

Shivering and wishing that she had thought to also bring a shawl, she plunged into the darkness. The passages were cold and damp, a far cry from the hazy memories of her first trip through them to the house by the lake. Those memories were shrouded in mist, as though they were the experiences of someone else, told to her many years ago and vaguely recalled. In her mind's eye, the tunnels were magical, breathtaking, illuminated by hundreds of brilliant candles. In reality, they were musty and unpleasant, uneven beneath her feet; cobwebs clung to her dress and lodged in her curls, and more than once she stifled a scream as a rat ran over her toes. It was a horrible place – how could Erik have lived down here for so long? _Because he has no choice_, she told herself, _because the world has looked upon him and turned its back_.

Quite suddenly, she felt incredibly vulnerable, creeping trembling and alone through the unknown in little more than a party dress, intending to confront a man who was so obviously angry with her. She knew what he was capable of, had seen the terrible fate of Joseph Buquet and heard the Phantom's threats – was this truly a sensible idea?

Raoul would say no, of course, and forbid her to go, but he did not understand. Even knowing what she did, Christine missed her Angel – those six months with no word from him, no idea whether he was alive or dead, had been almost unbearable. For the first time in five years, there was no music in her mind, and she felt bereft, as though she had lost a part of herself. His music had been her comfort, her salvation since her father's death, and now... now she was truly alone. Her Angel had broken his promise and abandoned her at last. The loss was almost a physical pain, like grieving all over again.

_Why did everything have to change?_ she wondered, _If only we could have gone on as before, when we were happy..._

Eventually, she reached her destination. The underground house on the shore of Lake Averne finally loomed out of the darkness, its front door ajar. She glanced at the rocky jetty before it and could see the gondola bobbing gently in the inky water. He was here, then, had retreated to his lair like a wounded animal. Hiding once more.

Christine hesitantly pushed open the door; there was no light in the hallway but it spilled from beneath the entrance to the music room. Tiptoeing towards it, her feet in their fanciful silver boots silent upon the carpet, she took a deep breath and called hesitantly,

"Erik? Erik, are you there?"

The door swung inwards before she could touch it. He stood ahead of her, beside the piano – the plumed hat and skeleton mask lay discarded on the lid. As he turned, slowly, Christine steeled herself for the sight of his distorted face but the deformity was covered by the familiar porcelain, cold and impassive. In contrast, the expression on his visible features was one of surprise, an emotion he immediately fought to conceal with only partial success.

"To what do I owe this honour, Mademoiselle?" he enquired, managing to sound almost casual. One long, white hand rested upon the heavy, intricately patterned cloth which covered the piano, the spread fingers reminding Christine uncomfortably of a spider.

She wished that she were not wearing such flimsy attire as the pink and blue masquerade costume with its frivolous stars and spangles; she felt like a child who had been playing in the dressing-up box. But then, she reflected, they both looked equally ridiculous, like two characters from a fairytale. Their appearance merely added to the unreal qualities of the situation. "I wanted to talk," she said, and to her own ears her voice sounded thin and shaky. She cursed it inwardly - he would surely feel nothing but contempt for her.

His eyebrow arched and his voice was almost a purr as he replied, "After six months' silence? Why now, my dear? What could possibly have drawn you back to me?"

"The silence was not entirely on my part," she informed him, nettled by his tone. "I waited for days by the mirror, but you did not come! Why did you do that to me, Erik? You took away the music - "

Mismatched eyes flashed and she knew that it was the Phantom rather than Erik who stood before her. "What did you expect from me, Christine?" he demanded. "Did you think that you could betray me as you did and still expect me to return, to come trotting back to you like some... some _lapdog_?"

Christine blinked, her turn to be surprised. "Betray you? What - "

Two long strides brought him close to her, imposing in his red finery. He glared down at her from his greater height. "I heard you, my angel, heard you with _him_. I offered my heart to you, laid it at your dainty little feet, and you saw fit to trample it into the mud. Cruel, _cruel_ Christine!"

"You... you were there? On the roof?" Christine's hand stole to her throat, instinctively reaching for the ring that was no longer there. All of a sudden the night of _Il Muto_ came back to her in all its disastrous glory. The horror, the chaos, all the things she had said... "You _heard_..."

"Yes, I heard. I heard you begging that boy to save you from the monster that stalks the dark, that same monster whom you admitted with another breath had freed your soul," Erik spat. "You cannot have it both ways, Christine, cannot hold onto both the light and the darkness at once." His tone was suddenly achingly bitter. "Experience has taught me that much."

"I did... I did not..."

"Did not what? Not mean it? Then you must learn to choose your words more carefully." With a flick of his wrist, her broken necklace, the ring dangling from it, was there in his hand, gleaming in the candlelight. "Did you mean it when you accepted this bauble, or are you leading us both a dance?"

Christine snatched at it, but he held it out of her reach like a small boy delighting in his power over her. "Stop it!" she cried, feeling tears well in her eyes. "You call _me_ cruel? Why must you torment me like this?"

"Torment _you_?" The lines of his visible features were hard, as though the living half of his face were carved from the same unyielding material as the mask. "How do you think I have felt these last six months, knowing that you had left me for that boy, that you were in his arms? You have no idea of torment, Christine, none at all!"

The tears spilled over. "Then show me some mercy!" she begged. "Do you truly wish to make me suffer so?" A strangled sob escaped her, and she clapped a hand to her mouth, trying desperately to stifle the sound.

He heard it all the same. Erik looked stricken, his face white against the dramatic backdrop of his scarlet cloak. He fell to his knees before her, its folds settling around him like the plumage of some exotic bird. "Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I cannot bear to see you cry! Erik has been a fool, a jealous fool!" He reached out to grasp the hem of her dress, bringing it to his lips.

"No, Erik!" Christine pulled his fingers away, sinking down beside him. "Please, don't."

He shied away from her touch. "Erik has hurt his Christine, made her sad."

"Your actions _have_ made me sad, that is true," she told him sincerely. "There is a darkness within you which scares me more than I can say. The Phantom... he terrifies me, Erik. I have never been as frightened of anything as I am of you when you become that man. I believe he could be capable of anything."

He gazed at her in mute appeal, blinking back tears of his own. _Those pleading eyes, which both threaten and adore... _

"But," Christine continued, "I know that within the Phantom is my Angel of Music, a man so kind and gentle, who has been my guide and guardian for so long..."

"If that is true then how could you leave your Angel, Christine? After all that he has done for you?" he asked, the bitter edge returning to his voice. She tried to recapture his hand, but he pulled away.

_My Angel left me_, she thought sadly, but swallowed and said, "We all... we all have to grow up, Erik. My father told me, there came a time when Little Lotte no longer needed her Angel of Music."

Erik stood, smoothly, towering over her once more. "And did you father reveal what became of the Angel, Christine? Can you tell me that?"

Christine stared up at him, realising she had lost him. If only the real world were like a fairy story! "I... I don't know," she admitted.

"I think I do," Erik said, his voice low and dangerous, "The abandoned Angel simply ceased to exist, his reason for living no longer there. Is that what you expect of me? I gave you _everything_!"

"Erik, please..." She held out her hand to him again, desperately, but he did not even spare it a glance, the Phantom back in charge.

Instead he drew the blood red cloak around him, fixing her with that disconcerting stare she had come to know so well. "I have made good use of my renewed solitude. My life's work is complete at last. You _will_ sing in my _Don Juan_, Christine – no one else can, the part was written for you and you alone. Should you choose to accept my assistance in preparing for your performance, you know where to find me. Tell those idiots in charge that they will be hearing from me very soon."

With a swirl of velvet fire, he was gone, leaving Christine crumpled on the floor, head in her hands, as her tears began to fall again.


	8. The Interloper

**Author's Note:**

Back-tracking a little here. I'm writing these as they come to me rather than trying to keep to a chronological order. There are a handful lines from Angel of Music/Little Lotte mixed into this chapter which obviously don't belong to me.

Thank you once again to those who have reviewed! :)

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><p><strong>THE INTERLOPER<strong>

The atmosphere was electric.

As the final notes died away, it seemed that even the air held its breath. After a pause, during which it was possible to hear the rustling silk of half a dozen evening gowns, the auditorium erupted into tumultuous applause. Christine looked at first rather bewildered and overwhelmed before she recovered her former poise and sank into a surprisingly graceful curtsey.

In Box Five on the Grand Tier, a shadow nodded its appreciation. "Bravissimi, Christine," it murmured.

"You were right."

Erik had been aware of the presence behind his chair for some moments before she spoke. Madame Giry might have thought that she could sneak through the door on silent feet and surprise him, but he missed nothing. Steepling his fingers in front of his face to hide the triumphant little smile which blossomed there he said smoothly, "I am gratified that you think so, Madame."

The ballet mistress came further into the box and peered around the curtain towards the seats directly opposite, where the managers entertained their guests. "It would seem that the Vicomte de Chagny agrees with you," she remarked.

"Does he really?" Erik ground his teeth as he followed her line of sight: the young nobleman was on his feet, his applause enthusiastic. The last thing he needed was a patron who actually had some interest in the arts – they would start questioning his creative decisions and trying to influence the management. "How surprising. The boy must be unique among his class."

Madame Giry turned away from the stage. The lights were rising, indicating the interval. "What will you do now?"

"I will certainly not suffer Act Four and wait with baited breath to see whether Signor Piangi will ever manage to hit a correct note," Erik said, getting to his feet and gathering his cloak and hat. "Naturally I will congratulate my pupil. Is there some other pressing business that you had in mind for me?"

"Have you considered the suggestion I made to you?"

His one visible eyebrow quirked into an impatient frown. "And precisely what suggestion would that be, Madame?"

She clucked her tongue in annoyance. "Christine has justified your faith in her, and more than proved herself before the world. Is it not time that you brought this charade to an end? There can be no good in continuing with a lie!"

"I will thank you to leave me to make that decision," Erik replied coldly, pulling the brim of his hat low over his face with a practised tug. "Rather than doling out unwanted advice, I suggest you look to your petit rats. The dancing this evening was a disgrace."

With a swirl of his cloak he slid into the narrow passageway concealed in one of the box's supporting columns and closed the door, leaving Madame Giry open-mouthed behind him.

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><p>The rest of <em>Hannibal<em> played out with little incident.

After Elissa's aria the audience wanted only to see Christine again, and showed their appreciation when she did appear with almost vulgar gusto. Erik had no desire to watch the remainder of the show from his box – he had seen quite enough in rehearsals and Chalumeau had never been a favourite composer of his. The man's orchestrations were feeble and the libretto clichéd and trite. However, the Parisian opera-goers seemed to like him, leaving Erik and his artist's sentiments very much in the minority. The managers would always pander to a taste for mediocrity if it brought in enough money; that could be the only possible reason for their inclusion of the Mozart-inspired but sub-standard _Il Muto_ in the company's current repertoire.

Before long he grew tired of waiting for Christine behind the mirror, and decided to haunt the backstage areas a little, showing just enough of his shadow and mask to frighten a couple of ballet rats and make the newer stage-hands nervous, prompting Joseph Buquet to relate one of his highly embellished tales about the Opera Ghost. He made a mental note to keep an eye on the head fly-man; Buquet was beginning to get far too near the truth for his own good.

At length, the cast left the stage for the final time, Piangi complaining loudly that if he was expected to climb onto the back of 'that ridiculous elephant' again he would need a longer ladder and Christine with her arms full of flowers. The moment she emerged she was surrounded by the corps de ballet, led by little Meg Giry; Erik cursed under his breath and slipped deeper into the shadows.

By the time he reached the back of the mirror once more, Antoinette had arrived to chase away the ballerinas. He smirked to hear her rebuking them for their poor performance before the door closed, muffling her raised voice. Thinking himself finally alone with his pupil, he opened his mouth to call her only to hear a breathless voice say,

"Christine, I can't believe it was really you singing! Who _is_ this remarkable tutor of yours?"

Damn and blast it all, little Giry had remained!

Christine took her friend's hands. "Do you remember I told you about my father's stories? About the Angel of Music?"

"Of course." Meg nodded, blonde curls bobbing. "They were such beautiful stories."

"Well, I have been blessed, Meg. I have been visited by the Angel of Music! It is he who has transformed my voice." A dreamy smile touched Christine's lips, and she turned her gaze upwards, as though towards the heavenly realm from which she believed her teacher had been sent. "I can feel him, here in this room. He's always with me, just out of my reach. Always watching me..."

"Christine..." Meg looked concerned, a frown creasing her forehead. "They were just stories; they can't come true. Are you sure you're all right? You're not feeling overcome by the excitement?"

"No. No, nothing like that." Christine pulled the lacy dressing gown she was wearing over her costume closer around her shoulders as though she were suddenly feeling cold. "It's just... it frightens me a little."

"Oh, Christine!" cried Meg, squeezing the hand she still held. "Don't be frightened. You were _wonderful_!"

Christine appeared to want to say something more, but before she could speak the door opened to reveal the black-clad figure of Madame Giry and the two girls sprang apart with the kind of guilty expressions one would expect to see on the faces of small children caught raiding the biscuit tin. The ballet mistress fixed her daughter with a stern glare.

"Meg Giry, are you a dancer?" she demanded, and upon receiving a nod in reply snapped, "Then go and practise!"

Meg scuttled off, muttering rebelliously, "Practise. _Always_ practise..."

Antoinette ignored her, turning to Christine. Her face softened slightly. "You have done well tonight, child. He is pleased with you." Christine looked confused, and doubtless would have asked to whom she referred, but had no chance as Madame Giry took an envelope from her pocket. "I was asked to give this to you."

Now it was Erik's turn to frown. Precisely who was behind this missive? In his guise of the Angel of Music he had never communicated with Christine in writing; the Phantom used notes, the Angel spoke with his song. He watched as Antoinette departed and Christine sat down to open the letter. Her perplexed expression remained as she read its contents.

"The attic... the red scarf... Little Lotte?"

She repeated the words under her breath as she removed Elissa's headdress and began to brush out her hair. They meant nothing to Erik; he pushed them aside as the childish attempt at introduction by an admirer. Touching the glass which seemed destined to continually remain between them, he readied himself to sing, to draw his angel to him once more. Her name danced lightly upon his tongue as he lifted his voice and...

The dressing room door opened yet again. Erik almost put his hand straight through the mirror in anger and frustration. He bit back a growl; those silly little ballet rats would feel the force of the Phantom's wrath...

Christine did not turn round. "You had better go, Meg, before Madame Giry gets really cross," she said, and there was a laugh from the doorway. It was a deep, undoubtedly masculine laugh. Erik froze.

"I know we have not seen each other for many years, but I hope that you would not mistake me for Mademoiselle Giry. I do not believe that I could stand en pointe," the voice said lightly, and added, "Christine Daae, where is your red scarf? Tell me you have not lost it again. And after I ran into the sea to fetch it for you!"

Those few words had an incredible effect upon Christine. The hairbrush was thrown aside and her face lit up with the kind of pleasure Erik had only seen when he paid her one of his rare compliments. She spun in her chair, throwing out her hands with a cry of delight to the tall young man who stood on the threshold, his handsome face wreathed in smiles and his golden hair glowing in the light from the lamp above the door.

It was de Chagny. Erik hated him on sight.

"Oh, Raoul, it _is_ you!" Christine exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

He bowed. "I came to pay my respects to the Populaire's newest diva, naturally. And to ask if she would do me the honour of accompanying me to supper."

"I..." She seemed on the point of accepting, when something obviously occurred to Christine. "I'm sorry, Raoul, but I can't. My teacher wouldn't like it."

"Does your teacher have control of your voice or your life, Christine?" Raoul asked with a superior smile which made Erik's long fingers curl into fists.

"He is very strict. But everything he says is for my own good, and I cannot go against his wishes."

"Nonsense. Even the strictest teacher would allow that you have had such a triumph this evening that you positively deserve supper at the very best restaurant," the vicomte declared. He captured her hand and raised it to his lips. "Now, you must get changed and I must get my hat. I will call for my carriage and return as quickly as I can. We can spend the rest of the evening catching up! I have missed you, Little Lotte."

"Raoul, wait!" Christine called, but he was already gone. She sighed and turned back to the mirror on her dressing table, meeting the worried gaze of her reflection. "Oh, dear."

She had good reason to worry.

Behind the full-length glass on the other side of the room, Erik was fuming. His anger, never very far from the surface, had risen with Raoul's intrusion, his burgeoning hatred of the young aristocrat pushing away the hesitation and fear of rejection which had until now made him reluctant to reveal himself to Christine. She had asked repeatedly over the last few months if she might see her Angel at last, and always he had had a convincing excuse to hand, sure that were they to come face to face she would cast him aside. Eventually he would be able to delay no more, but there was still time and he planned meticulously for that moment, so that when it finally came it would be perfect. Christine would experience the glory that was his music and never have to discover the monster that lay behind it.

Now, however, rage threw caution to the winds. When he spoke, his voice thundered through the room, making Christine jump. "Insolent boy! How _dare_ he try to share in my triumph?"

"Angel?" Christine whispered, trembling, her dark eyes flicking anxiously around her. "Angel, is that you?"

"Ignorant fool!" Erik snarled. "All he wishes to do is bask in _your_ glory!"

"I'm sorry, Angel, I did not think... forgive me!" she cried, falling to her knees, hands clasped as if in prayer. "Please stay by my side!"

She was so close that he could reach out and touch her were it not for the glass between them. The light from the room spilling into the passageway fell on the lantern in its niche and an idea took hold in Erik's mind. He pitched his voice low, allowing its beauty to roll seductively through the air. His hand hovered above the switch which would cause the mirror to turn on its hidden pivot and remove the final barrier.

"Come to me, Christine. Come to your Angel of Music..."

The mirror opened; Christine Daae gasped. The Phantom smiled, and welcomed her to his world.


	9. Amid the Falling Snow

**Author's Note:**

I must admit to having a bit of problem with _Wandering Child/Bravo, Monsieur_, mainly because what works on stage (the fireballs) looks ridiculous in prose. Equally, I dislike the swordfight in the movie because it's completely ludicrous. I do, however, like their snowy cemetery setting, which is what I've used here. Also, I very much doubt that Daddy Daae would have been able to afford either of the huge mausoleums he's given.

The title is from the Enya track of the same name, which can be found on her album _Amarantine_.

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><p><strong>AMID THE FALLING SNOW<strong>

The frozen path crunched beneath Christine's feet as she made her way from the gates. After so long she could walk it in her sleep; she knew exactly how many steps it took, which monuments and stones she would pass on the way. In those first empty, lonely weeks and months, she had measured the passing of time by the dropping of the earth that covered the new graves, by the wilting of their floral tributes.

Five years. It scarcely seemed that long – if she closed her eyes she could almost believe that it had been only yesterday when it was she and her father against the world. Back then he had appeared to be invincible, his star rising with every performance in every new town, their life a whirl about which they had barely even dared to dream all that time ago in Sweden. He had talked of nurturing Christine's talent, sending her to the Conservatoire for professional training; he talked of much, the vast majority of those words remaining as just that, his plans cut short by the cancer that had been, unknown to either of them, destroying him inside. His passing had left an ache deep in her heart, the ache of a loss which she knew, though time may dull it, would never leave her.

The grave itself was simple; though Gustave Daae was much respected as a musician an ability to handle money had not been one of his talents. Money slipped through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to stop it; there was always a deserving cause or a friend in need to whom he would give without a second thought. Even amid gala performances and standing ovations, they had never been rich, and the plain marble stone was all Christine could afford once the debts were paid. As the mason charged by the letter the inscription it bore stated merely his name and the dates of his birth and death. There was no room for even a line in tribute from his daughter.

Kneeling on the cold ground, she spread out the roses she had brought as always and sighed. "Oh, Papa, what am I going to do? Everything is so confused; I think I may be going mad. Nothing makes sense any more!"

Of course there was no reply; there never was. Christine was not so naive as to expect a stone to answer her plea, but she always felt closer to her father when she visited his grave. With all physical sense of him gone but the photograph she cherished and set upon her dressing table, this place was her only connection with the most important person in her life. Here, she could almost imagine his gentle presence beside her.

"How I wish you were here with me," she whispered, bowing her head. "How can you have been gone so long?"

A shadow fell across her. "You appear in need of some guidance, child," a silken voice murmured in her ear.

Startled, Christine looked up and stifled a gasp at the sight of this intruder. Never before had she seen him beyond the confines of the Opera House, but astonishingly Erik stepped out from behind the gravestone, his black cloak and wide-brimmed hat stark against the snow. A shiver ran through her, one that had nothing to do with the chill in the air.

"What... what are you doing here?" she demanded tremulously. She had almost imagined that he could not leave the theatre, trapped there like the Minotaur in its labyrinth, but here he was, out in the real world.

He reached out a gloved hand, lightly tracing the words carved into the marble before him. "Your father was a most talented musician."

"Forgive me if I find the idea that you have come to pay your respects somewhat hard to believe, monsieur."

"Christine, _Christine_." Erik shook his head, his tone lilting. "You are troubled. Tell your Angel what is wrong."

"No." Fiercely, she shut her eyes, clenching her fists and willing herself to resist the beauty of his voice. If she listened, he would ensnare her once again, and she would be lost. "Stop this. I cannot think when you are near me. My mind is not my own!"

Silence greeted her words. She could hear a bell tolling somewhere in the distance, the wheels of a coach outside rattling past. When eventually she risked peering at him through her lashes the unmasked side of his face for once betrayed his feelings – he looked shocked.

"You... you came here to escape me. Christine, do I frighten you so much?" he asked, sounding in that moment more like a bewildered little boy than the powerful and controlling Phantom.

Mutely, Christine nodded. Erik's eyes closed, as if in pain, and he turned away, his cloak swirling about him. In the encroaching twilight, the falling snowflakes glistened amid the jet beads on his shoulders like diamonds. When he spoke again, his voice was soft.

"I would give you the world if you asked, Christine. Why do you not believe that?"

"I don't want the world from you, Erik. I want to be free, to make my own decisions, to live my life as I wish," she said honestly.

His head inclined slightly, giving her a view of the cold, implacable frown of his mask. "And there is no place in that life for Erik?"

"I did not say that." Christine gazed upon the roses spread upon the grave before her. Frost already touched the blooms; they would be dead by morning. "All I ask is the right to choose."

"And should _I_ choose not to grant you that right?" Erik spun slowly to face her, reaching out a hand. Curling one long finger and then another with languid grace into his palm, he sang in barely more than a breath, "Come to me, Christine. Come to your Angel of Music..."

He knew so well the sensual, hypnotic power of his voice. As always, she was unable to resist. She rose, stepping obediently around the grave to stand before him. A smile touched his bloated lips.

"You need your Angel, Christine. Where would you be without him?"

"Christine!"

A new voice rent the air, raised in desperation. The spell was broken; the Phantom hissed in anger, turning to meet the newcomer, to see who had dared to interrupt. A carriage waited beyond the cemetery gate, and a figure in a greatcoat ran between the monuments, golden hair in disarray, and a pistol in his hand. There was no mistaking his identity, or his intent.

"Raoul!" Christine cried. "Raoul, go back!"

"No, Christine. I don't know what he's told you, if he's mesmerised you or used other trickery, but that thing is _not_ your father!" Raoul stopped ten feet away, levelling his gun. "Let her go, you monster!"

From the corner of her eye, Christine saw Erik stiffen, standing straighter, but to her surprise a slow clapping sound, each impact as loud as a shot, was all that came from him. Looking properly, she realised that he was lazily applauding Raoul's efforts. "Bravo, monsieur," he drawled. "I did not think you possessed such spirit!"

The pistol wavered, but only slightly. "I mean it. Release her, or I will shoot."

Erik took a step away from Christine, but remained within touching distance. He spread his hands wide. "You would shoot an unarmed man? Where is your code of honour?"

Raoul's lip curled in disdain. "It counts only when my opponent is an honourable man, monsieur. You are no such thing."

The flawless side of the Phantom's face crumpled in fury. "You will regret your words, _Monsieur le Vicomte_." With movements too fast for Christine to follow, there was suddenly a long, thin, cord in his hands. It twisted, and snapped, and as he threw out an arm a stone vase on a neighbouring grave shattered into a thousand fragments. Ducking the shards, Raoul spun, his finger on the trigger, but he was not quick enough. This time a kneeling angel was decapitated and Christine shrieked in terror as the dislodged head flew closed to Raoul's own. A horrible chuckle, reminding her of the night the chandelier fell, danced from Erik's throat, and a moment later the cord was around Raoul's wrist and he was jerking it downwards to point the barrel of the gun harmlessly at the floor. The vicomte's mouth contorted in a grimace of pain; Christine started towards him, but a mere gesture from Erik somehow held her back.

"You said that you were unarmed," Raoul gasped.

Erik's mouth twitched. "I am a man without honour, monsieur. You should not have believed me." He moved closer, tightening his grip on the rope. Raoul bit back a cry, his fingers spasming. The pistol fell into the snow. "Foolish boy. Tell me why I should let you live." With a flick of his wrist, he pulled sharply on the cord; this time Raoul howled.

"You evil abomination!" he shouted, scrabbling for the gun with his left hand. "Why do you not return to the hell that spawned you and leave us be?"

"_Stop it_!" Christine screamed, unable to watch any more. "Stop it, both of you!"

Both men froze, and then, almost as one, slowly turned to look at her. Despite the pain, Raoul's mouth hung open in shock; Erik's visible features were neutral but for a slightly raised eyebrow. Christine dug her nails into her palms, steeling herself for the coming confrontation, and took a deep breath.

"Leave him, Erik," she said, amazing herself with the calmness of her voice. "Let him go, or, so help me God, there will be _never_ be a place for you in my life."

His mismatched gaze met hers, and she forced herself to hold it, her chin lifted defiantly. _I mean it_, she told him wordlessly.

For several long moments, it was stalemate between them before, whirling about, he began to gather in the rope. A deft twist of the fingers released Raoul, causing the vicomte to overbalance with the force of the movement. Almost by magic, the gun on the frozen ground was in Erik's hand, and had vanished into his pocket before Christine could blink. She went to Raoul's side, helping him to his feet; Erik's eyes were hot on her back, and she could feel the rage boiling within him. Though he was already moving away, returning to the shadows from which he had come; his voice was there with them, falling through the air like the snow:

"This is not over. Prepare yourself, for the battle between us just became a war."


	10. Like An Angel Passing Through My Room

**Author's Note:**

I always like to write something a bit creepy for Halloween; don't know if I've succeeded here, but this is it, written for a challenge at the LJ community great_tales.

The title comes from the song by ABBA, which can be found on their album _The Visitors_. I do quote a couple of lines from the _Phantom_ libretto here, which obviously don't belong to me.

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><p><strong>LIKE AN ANGEL PASSING THROUGH MY ROOM<strong>

It was late.

Christine knew that she should have left hours ago. Even Madame Giry did not work this far into the evening; the company had all retreated to their various homes and lodgings and only the night-watchmen remained, but for the past few weeks she had been reluctant to return to her lonely little flat. The Opera House was a huge, intimidating building, and yet somehow the shabby, unadorned backstage area was almost cosy. Though she struggled daily to fit in, conscious of the other girls of the corps de ballet watching her and questioning under their breath the right of someone with so little talent for dance to join their ranks, Christine felt more at home in the theatre than she had anywhere since her father's death. She had spent much of her young life in and around such places, always on the periphery it was true, a follower rather than a performer, but she found herself entranced by the colour and bustle which surrounded her. Even close to midnight, as the Opera House slept, she preferred to be here rather than sitting and staring at a blank wall and wishing she could rewrite the past few months.

A candle in her grasp, she wandered the hallways behind the stage, careful even now not to show herself amidst the gilded opulence that lay on the other side of the green baize door which separated the two disparate worlds. She supposed that she should be nervous, the constant talk of the resident spirit making her look over her shoulder, but for some reason she could not define or explain she felt at peace. The candle burned placidly in its holder, disturbed by neither breath nor draught. As she passed through the wings the ghost light burning on the stage did not bother her; she stood upon the boards gazing out into the shadowy, silent auditorium for some time, imagining how it would feel to be in the limelight, accepting the applause of an adoring crowd as she had seen the Prima Donna do so many times.

With a sigh, she moved towards the cast quarters, knowing that if one of the watchmen were to find her the manager would be angry. Of late she had taken to sleeping on the little couch in one of the smaller dressing rooms, a chamber that did not appear to be used by even the more minor of the performers. Christine recalled Meg whispering something once about the room being haunted, but then if one took notice of such pronouncements they would never even cross the threshold of the building for fear of the Phantom.

She was not sure whether she believed in the Opera Ghost. Certainly, if he menaced other members of the company he had yet to turn his attention to her, but she could not deny that it was hard to explain quite how the scores for the comic opera Monsieur Lefevre had just received from London came to be replaced with those for Gounod's _Faust_. The manager blamed it on a prankster in the cast, but rumour had it that the office door had been locked and there were no duplicate keys or signs of a break-in. Though Christine had always been captivated by her father's tales of Scandinavian mythology, she could not feel the same way about the fantastical stories woven by Joseph Buquet to scare the more impressionable of the ballet rats. The head fly-man claimed to have seen the Phantom for himself, and his descriptions of the creature became ever more lurid as the girls encouraged him, demanding details and squealing with supposed terror.

Christine had been present for one of the more graphic recitations and she shuddered at the thought of a face without a nose, its skin yellowing and peeling, appearing from the darkness and fixing its glowing eyes upon her, and hurried down the corridor. Buquet had a vivid imagination! As she turned into the passage from which the smaller dressing rooms opened, her candle flame quite suddenly danced and flickered. She stopped walking; there was no breeze to have caused such an effect and so she stood quite still, waiting to see if it happened again. It did not, but a cold breath touched the back of her neck for the briefest moment. Christine swallowed against the nervous lump that had not been there in her throat seconds before and reached for the door handle of the little room she had claimed as her own.

The candle guttered and then went out, pitching her into complete darkness.

She barely restrained a scream of alarm. Invisible fingers of ice crawled down her spine, and though she knew she was alone she could almost believe that there was someone standing immediately behind her. That breath of air was back on her neck, making the hair there stand on end, and she could feel eyes on her, heated eyes, staring.

_Is this how it begins_? she thought wildly. _Think of the Phantom and he will appear?_

There was a sound, like soft footsteps. They moved behind and then to the side of her, as if their owner had simply walked straight through the wall. A swish, like that of heavy fabric brushing the floorboards, accompanied the steps. Christine closed her eyes, clutching the candle in a terrified grip. Perhaps if she did not move, if she drew no attention to herself, whatever was in the passage with her would ignore her and continue on its way. After all, the Phantom liked to play tricks; he did not harm people. Did he?

_Oh, Papa, please protect me..._

The moments passed so slowly they became an eternity. She held her breath, listening as intently as she could. Eventually, there came no sound but that of her own blood pumping in her ears and she allowed herself to exhale. Ducking quickly into the dressing room, she closed the door and bolted it behind her. For some time she stood there with her back pressed to the wood and her fingers gripping the handle, before she convinced herself to let go and move across the room. Her eyes had become accustomed to the blackness and she managed not to bump into the furniture but it took her some time to locate the matches she had secreted in the drawer of the dressing table. She turned, striking one against the box, and gasped as, before she could touch the match to the wick, the candle flame flared magically back into life.

It was impossible, completely impossible, but there it was before her. What was happening here? Was she dreaming? The flame was burning strongly, as though it had never been extinguished in the first place. It sent shadows and brilliant reflections skittering over the full-length mirror on the wall. Christine found her eyes drawn to the glass, wondering despite the fear that gripped her how it was that a room with such a decoration should be abandoned. Without really knowing why, she rose and stood before the mirror, her fingertips following the glittering points of light. They were dizzying, mesmerising...

Somewhere, just on the edge of her hearing, someone was singing. The tune was not one with which she was familiar and there were no words, but the singer's voice floated effortlessly over the rising and falling notes. Her eyes filled with tears; the song was so achingly, hauntingly beautiful. But she was alone - where was this person who could create such incredible music?

"_Christine_..."

The word was little more than a whisper caressing her ear but she heard it clearly. Spinning around, her eyes rapidly searched the room, gaze darting in and out of each dark corner. "Who is it? Who is there?"

"Christine... _Christine_..." The sound which answered her was as ethereal, as intangible as the dancing reflections in the mirror. Though her immediate instinct was to run, Christine found that she longed to hear it again. Her name, sung with such grace, hung in the air like a benediction. Softly, liltingly, it asked, "_Do you not know me, Christine_?"

"How should I know you? Who _are_ you?" There was no way to tell the location of the voice; it seemed to drift about her head, coming first from the left and then to the right. When it next spoke, it appeared to be in front of her, but all she could see was her own face staring at her in the glass.

"_Did not your father tell you about me, Christine_? _Did he not make you a promise_?"

Her reflection dissolved, and it was almost as though Christine was back in the sick room, sitting by her father's bed as he lay fighting the ever more frequent spasms of pain. His face against the pillow was white and gaunt, the skin stretched taught across the bones; the illness had left him a shadow of the man she had known. Trying desperately not to cry, she squeezed his hand, willing him to stay with her. He tried so hard, but he battled against insurmountable odds. He knew his time was short, even as she prayed desperately for him to be spared, for it was then that he made the promise she could not forget, a promise she should not have believed, should have attributed to the ramblings of a dying man. She had to believe, for she clung to those words, however impossible the pledge, in the cold dark sea of her grief.

"_Do you not remember, child_?"

She met the startled gaze of the Christine in the mirror, jerked back to the present. One of her father's favourite stories had been that of Little Lotte, the girl who dreamed and was blessed with an Angel, but who was left to recall it now but her? It was late, she was tired, and fatigue made her fanciful. She _must_ be dreaming, her desperate, lonely mind conjuring up the comfort for which she longed. Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead against the glass and addressed whoever it was that thought to beguile her.

"I miss my father more than I can say. How can you tease and torment me by speaking of him?" she murmured. "I beg of you, whoever... _whatever_ you are, leave me in peace."

There was silence for a long moment. But then the voice came again, and this time it breathed gently into her ear. "_Remember, Christine_. _Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing... Her father promised her that he would send her the Angel of Music_..."

Christine's spine tingled, and she straightened as if someone were pulling an invisible thread. "Her father promised her..." she repeated, almost without realising. "Her father _promised_ her..."

"_I am your Angel, Christine. A gift from your father, I am here to make your spirit soar_." The words were louder, stronger, ringing through the air above her head. A second later they wrapped themselves about her neck like a glittering collar of gems. Or a noose. The voice sung again its heavenly tune before it dropped to a sibilant whisper once more. "_Open your mind_. _Give yourself to me, and we will astonish the world_. _What do you say_?"

A smile touched Christine's lips and her eyes in the mirror were wide. "I say... I say yes."

Somewhere in the building a clock struck midnight.


	11. The Dark Angel

**Author's Note:**

In the musical we're not told how Erik and Madame Giry come to meet. This is my version.

Thank you to reflekshun for your continued reviews - they're very much appreciated!

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><p><strong>THE DARK ANGEL<strong>

It was some time before Christine calmed down. Madame Giry sat her on the little sofa in the corner of the dressing room and handed her a handkerchief; taking a seat beside her she waited patiently for the soprano to compose herself. Across from them, the full-length mirror did nothing more than display their reflections without so much as a ripple in the glass. Erik had not remained for even a moment.

"Who is he, Madame Giry?" Christine cried at last. "Who is my Angel?"

"I am not sure it is my place to say, my dear," the ballet mistress replied uncomfortably.

"But you obviously know him, you deliver his letters! _Please_, Madame Giry!" Christine caught hold of one of her hands and held it tightly. Her brown eyes were wide and imploring. "Everything has changed and I don't understand - "

"Very well, very well." Antoinette patted her pupil's fingers and sighed. "But you must realise that I made a promise years ago never to reveal his secrets. He will not be pleased that I have told you." He would be angry, _very _angry, but she had warned him what would happen. Sooner or later such a web of lies would begin to unravel, and here was the first loose thread.

"Where did he come from? How long has he lived down there in the darkness?" asked Christine. She was still trembling, and Madame Giry rose to retrieve a shawl from the armoire. The poor girl was still wearing little more than her lacy white dressing gown, and when the shawl was wrapped around her shoulders she clung to it as though to a lifeline.

"To the former, I do not rightly know. He is a magician and an architect as well as a gifted composer; I believe he had some hand in the construction of the Opera, though he has never revealed how large a role he played. Your Angel is a genius, Christine," Antoinette told her, "He would have gone far had the world treated him with kindness."

Christine looked at the floor, her fingers plucking at the plaited fringe of the shawl. At some stage during her underground journey she had lost one of her slippers, and her stockings were streaked with mud. "His face..." she whispered.

"You have seen it?" Madame Giry asked, astonished. It was no wonder Erik had left in such a hurry if that which he feared most had occurred. She knew that he would never have revealed his deformity to Christine; if she had found out by some other means then he must be devastated.

The little soprano nodded miserably. "I only wanted to know who he was. I thought my Angel would be so beautiful..."

"Beauty is more than that which we see," Antoinette said sharply. "Erik has suffered because too many believe differently, because they judge by appearance alone."

"Erik... you called him that earlier."

"Of course. It is his name, the only one he has now. He was not always your Angel of Music, my dear."

"I don't think he will want to be my Angel any longer," Christine said, her voice shaking with the threat of more tears. "Not after what I've done."

Madame Giry sat down beside her once more and took her hands. "I doubt that. You mean more to him than you realise. But you must be patient, Christine. Erik is not a man who trusts easily."

The unhappy girl pulled away, bending her head so that her face was hidden by her untidy curls. There were cobwebs caught in them; Antoinette wondered what Erik had been thinking when he dragged Christine through the tunnels to return her to the world above. When she spoke, Christine's voice was muffled. "Then he will never trust me again."

"Oh, my dear." Madame Giry squeezed her shoulder.

Christine glanced at her from behind her hair. "He trusts _you_, Madame. Why is that?"

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><p><em>Antoinette bit back the scream that welled in her throat as the dirty, laughing faces pushed their way into hers, their owners' rank, wine-soaked breath stinging her nostrils. One of them pawed at the pocket of her coat, finding her purse, while the hands of another roamed to places she would willingly have harmed him for touching had she been able. She thought of Meg, her little Meg, left alone in their lodgings while she ran out to fetch the bag she had left in her office. It should have been a trip of a few minutes, but it had become a nightmare. She prayed silently that these men would not make her daughter an orphan.<em>

"_Just take the money and go," she told the roughs who surrounded her. "I have nothing more!" A strange surge of pride flooded through her when her voice barely trembled._

"_Oh, I think we'll take the cash and anything else we fancy." The ringleader, a repulsive little individual with greasy black hair and stained teeth, grinned. "What d'you think, lads? I say we have a little fun!" His hand found its way up her thigh, and Antoinette inwardly cringed. She steeled herself for what was to come..._

_...and was quite suddenly aware that there was another presence in the alley, one which had appeared silently and unnoticed by any of them until that moment. A dark figure, barely more than a shadow shrouded in a thick cloak and a hat whose wide brim was tilted over his face, loomed up from the mist._

"_I say you leave this woman be and crawl back under whatever filthy stone from whence you came before I decide to take matters into my own hands," a voice, low and melodious and as sharp as a rapier, hissed, improbably sounding as though it were near Madame Giry's own ears even though its owner stood six feet away._

_Slowly, the two thugs standing behind the man who had first attacked her turned to face the newcomer. One of them smiled. "What we got 'ere, then? Don't look like no gendarme to me," he declared._

_His companion nodded, and with an unspoken agreement they began to advance on the shadow. Before they reached him the moon took the opportunity to emerge from behind one of the lowering clouds, stopping the men in their tracks. One of them stared, mouth open, while the other exclaimed,_

"_For the love of God, look at 'is _face_! What the hell _is _that?"_

_Antoinette looked as well, and was startled to see that the stranger seemed to have no face to speak of: one half lay in deep shadow while the other gleamed white in the moonlight as though made entirely of bone. The man chuckled, a sound which made a shiver race down her spine. "I advise you, messieurs, it would be a mistake to take me on. Leave now while you still have the chance and while you still have breath in your lungs."_

_There was confusion as the two thugs looked at each other and then at the repellent creature who still held Antoinette. He glanced over his shoulder at the stranger, who stood quite still with the mist curling about his cloak. "Just get rid of 'im," he ordered. "What are yer, a pair of women?"_

"_But - " one of them began, only to be interrupted by a sneer._

"_It's two against one – 'e don't stand a chance. Get 'im out of 'ere and dump 'im in the river. The body'll never be found."_

Until low tide_, Antoinette thought, but his words seemed to reassure his companions. Once more, they advanced on the stranger and now she could see that they had knives in their hands. She held her breath as the dark man remained perfectly still until they were no more than two feet from him. Then, faster than Antoinette's eyes could follow, a length of thin cord snaked from his hand and wrapped around the throat of the nearest of them. A blade clattered to the floor; there was a horrible choking sound and an even more dreadful snap, and the stranger pushed away the limp form of one attacker and turned his attention to the other._

_The man, terrified by the fate of his companion, tried to run, but the dark figure was too quick for him. In mere seconds, he had been dispatched in the same practised manner. Antoinette stared, in equal parts disgusted and astonished by what she had just witnessed. Her rescuer stepped over the bodies of the two roughs and approached the last, who still stood with his body pressed up against hers, pinning her to the wall in a revoltingly intimate position. There was no mistaking his intention, and it seemed he still intended to follow it through despite the deaths of his friends._

"_I suggest you release the lady, monsieur." The stranger's voice was as smooth as silk, though it had a dangerous edge. "Immediately, unless you wish to share the fate of your associates."_

"_I don't think that'll be 'appening," the thug said, letting go of Antoinette to reach inside his tattered jacket. "And d'you know why? 'Cause I ain't as stupid as them!" He whirled around, taking the stranger by surprise, and struck out. There was the dull crack of bone hitting bone and a grunt from the man who had been hit; the next moment there was another sound, impossibly like that of china shattering upon the floor._

_A roar of fury came from the stranger and he straightened, drawing himself to an impressive full height from which he loomed over Antoinette's attacker. He reached out with long, thin fingers and grasped the man by the collar, pulling him close. As the moon appeared once more, the thug looked full into the stranger's face and froze. "God in Heaven," the man whispered._

"_Oh, no, monsieur. God deserted me years ago," the stranger said softly. "It seems He has done the same for you."_

"_What... what _are_ you?"_

_Antoinette caught the flash of teeth in the dim light and realised the stranger was smiling. "For you, the Angel of Death," he replied, and moved his fingers to the man's throat. The thug gurgled, eyes wide and bulging. "I do dislike killing with the bare hands. So very messy."_

_The man's arms flailed as his air supply was gradually cut off – the light flashed from the blade of a knife he had concealed in one hand and Antoinette cried out a warning but it was too late. With a shout of pain, her rescuer crumpled, releasing the last rough, who took to his heels without looking back. For several seconds she stood as though frozen before reason returned and she hurried to his side, trying to ignore the cooling bodies of the more unfortunate of her attackers._

"_Where are you hurt?" she asked, fingers searching instinctively through his layers of clothing. He tried to bat her hands away but he was already weakening; he sagged to his knees and Antoinette found herself struggling to keep him from sliding onto the dirty floor of the alley. His hat had fallen in the scuffle and she could see his face at last, or at least his profile: gaunt but distinguished, with deep-set eyes and a prominent nose... and then he turned, and she was immediately transported back several years to a fairground outside Paris and to a darkened tent proclaiming Miracles of Nature and Human Oddities, to a cage in which a man stood playing the most beautiful music on a violin, a man with the face of a rotting corpse... _

_Her hand flew to her mouth and she must have gasped for her rescuer lifted his head despite the pain and obviously encroaching unconsciousness. His eyes, one blue, one dark met hers and a distressed howl escaped his lips as he recognised the horror there. He instinctively covered the disfigured side of his face with his bloodied fingers but he was not fast enough; she had seen. "My mask," he whispered, fumbling around on the filthy floor with his other hand while Antoinette tried to support him. "Where is it? Where _is_ it?"_

_She recalled the sound of breaking china, and beyond him could make out the gleam of something white amongst the mud and straw. "I think it is broken." He tried to pull away from her but she held on tight. "Please, let me help you! Let me get you to a doctor - "_

_He shook his head violently. "No. No doctors. It is only a scrape along the ribs."_

"_It looks worse than that to me, monsieur. If nothing else, let me help you home. Where do you live?"_

"_Live?" He blinked at her in confusion, the blood loss beginning to take its effect upon his senses._

"_Yes. Where is your home? Is it far away?"_

_Antoinette stared in amazement when he lifted his hand once more and pointed shakily to the Rue Scribe entrance to the Opera Populaire. No, not to the entrance, the gate in the wall _beside_ it..._

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><p>"He allowed me to help him down to his house in the fifth cellar," Antoinette said. "Of course, it was not quite as comfortable as it is now, but I managed to stop the bleeding and patch him up. Thankfully he was right and that horrible man had missed all his vital organs, but he was weak enough to need my assistance. Of course, he did not want to allow another into his sanctuary, but I convinced him eventually that he could trust me."<p>

Christine sat wide-eyed through the ballet mistress's recitation, clutching a cup of the tea Madame Giry had made when it seemed that her story would be a long one in the telling. She made no mention of the men Erik had killed that night; though he had been defending himself and her, it would not help Christine now to know that her Angel was a man capable of murder. As far as Antoinette knew, he had not killed again in the years that had followed, despite the dire threats which sometimes rang through the theatre. The blood on his hands had long since dried.

"Once he was well enough to look after himself, I heard no more from him for several weeks. And then, when I returned to my office one evening after a very long practise session, there he was. The door was locked, and it seemed as if he had appeared by magic. Later I learned of his secret passages, but at that moment it appeared to be almost miraculous. It was then that he asked me to be his messenger, a go-between for him with the manager. He offered terms which were beneficial to us both, and so I accepted."

"It is all so incredible," murmured Christine.

Madame Giry took the teacup, its contents now stone cold, and placed it on the tray with the others. "You will soon learn, Christine, that Erik is probably quite the most incredible man who ever lived," she said, adding silently, _but that is not necessarily a good thing to be, especially when you would give your all just to be normal..._


	12. The Phantom and the Ballet Mistress

**Author's Note:**

Many thanks to those who have reviewed; I appreciate every one.

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><p><strong>THE PHANTOM AND THE BALLET MISTRESS<strong>

The normally elegant and comfortable library of the underground house looked as though a whirlwind had swept through it. Books lay flung from their shelves, furniture was overturned; the Persian carpet was littered with the torn and crushed remains of dozens of musical scores. Only the grand piano seemed to have escaped intact, isolated upon an island of its own amidst the mess.

A single wing-backed armchair stood upright by the cold hearth, and in this sat the hunched form of the Opera Ghost, a half-empty brandy decanter at his elbow. Antoinette had not seen Erik look so dishevelled since the night she first entered his home, supporting his barely-conscious, bleeding body after their altercation with the street roughs. He seemed almost to have shrunk, the grace and poise of the Phantom apparently deserting him as though he had thrown them off with his cloak. His jacket was missing and his normally pressed white shirt was open at collar and cuffs; the black silk waistcoat hung loose, revealing the creased and crumpled material beneath. Madame Giry wondered how long it had been since he changed his clothes. For someone usually so immaculately dressed, it seemed wrong that he should be seen this way. The dark hair was in disarray from the overzealous attention of distracted fingers, and to her great surprise there was no sign of his mask.

"Oh, Erik," she murmured sadly. "What have you done to yourself?"

It was some minutes before he showed any sign that he was aware of her presence. When he finally spoke, his beautiful voice was low and cracked. "Erik has been a fool, Annie. He built a house of cards, and it has fallen down about his ears."

Antoinette crouched beside him, ignoring the protests made by her dancer's bones. "What happened?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

Erik's hands gripped the arms of the chair for a moment, the fingers like claws, before he abruptly surged to his feet. He paced a few steps in front of the fireplace, ending with his back turned to her. "What do you think happened?" He gestured to the damaged side of his face with a hollow laugh; as the sound died away his head drooped and the raised hand came up to cradle his distortion. "Why could she not have left well alone?"

"I'm sorry." Climbing stiffly to her feet, Madame Giry gently rested a hand on his shoulder. He flinched and shied away, as though her touch was painful. "I truly _am_ sorry, Erik. But remember that I did - "

A fist clenched at his side. The next words he spoke were pushed through gritted teeth. "Do not say it. Do _not_ say that you warned me."

With a sigh, she let her hand drop away. "It has been nearly two weeks since the gala. Why have you been hiding yourself away? Everyone is starting to believe that the Phantom has vanished; you did not even ask me to deliver your notes this time."

"She ran from me." Erik's tone was flat. "I should have expected it. Why should she not run from the monster? All this time she believed in her Angel of Music, believed in a fantasy_ I_ encouraged... why should she have been anything but disgusted once she learned the truth? I must have been such a disappointment; no wings, no halo, no heavenly choir..."

"Did she tell you so?" Antoinette asked sharply, cutting impatiently across his self-pity. "Have you spoken with her since that night?"

He shook his head. "No. I have not dared to inflict my unwelcome presence upon her."

"Then how can you possibly know how she feels?"

"She made her feelings abundantly clear, Madame!" he snarled, whipping around like a goaded snake about to strike. "She screamed at the very sight of me, as I always knew she would! Had it not been for that... that accursed _boy_ I would never have made it possible for her to... to..." He trailed off with a strangled sound somewhere between a sob and a moan. Returning to his chair with heavy tread he sat once more, his head sinking into his hands.

Suddenly, Madame Giry understood. The note she had delivered for de Chagny and Christine's inevitable reaction to it – Erik must have been watching. She cursed herself inwardly. "The Vicomte. It was because of him that you - "

"That I carried her off, yes. The beast abducted the girl under the nose of the handsome prince and took her below to his lair. I tried to show her that I could create such beauty for her; that I could weave magic around us, but she cut straight through me to my weakest point." Erik sank back against the cushions, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I called her Pandora, and I was right. That fatal curiosity! Well, you have what you wanted: the charade, as you have always termed it, is at an end."

Antoinette looked around the ruined library. Her eye fell on an overturned tapestry chair and she righted it, sweeping away the mass of papers tangled around the legs, and sat down next to him. "Erik," she said, smoothing down her skirts, "Will you allow me to speak frankly?"

He did not move but his left eyebrow arched upwards. "When have you ever done anything else?"

"Genius you may be, but you have very little experience of the caprices of women. I understand that it is not your fault," she added when he opened his mouth to protest, "but you cannot think for Christine. She has to make her own decisions, draw her own conclusions. Do not allow yourself to feel threatened by the Vicomte – she had not heard from him in ten years before the gala. _You_ are her Angel of Music; _you_ have been her friend and confidant all this time, not him. Yes, she is scared and confused, but she may yet surprise you."

As she spoke, Erik straightened in the chair, his brow and its ruined counterpart drawing together in a frown. "Why are you so sure of this? How do you know - "

"Because she is here, Monsieur," a new voice interrupted.

Startled, Phantom and ballet mistress both turned towards the hallway; there, on the threshold, her skirts held high in one hand and a lantern in her grip, stood Christine.

"I'm sorry," she said tremulously, her big dark eyes moving from one of them to the other and back again. "May I come in?"


	13. Wounded Lion

**Author's Note:**

Continued from the last chapter. Many thanks once again to those who have reviewed!

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><p><strong>WOUNDED LION<strong>

"I don't wish to intrude."

Christine hesitated in the doorway, feeling like a child up past her bedtime trying to join the grown-ups in conversation. Madame Giry fixed her with a stern glare, obviously divining that she had been followed; Christine, worried about her Angel, had seen the ballet mistress's furtive behaviour as she descended to the props store in the cellars, somewhere she should surely have no business. Taking her chance, she slipped as quietly as she could through the trap door Madame Giry had unwittingly revealed, knowing that if anyone could lead her to the strange house by the underground lake it was that formidable lady.

And she had been proved right. Here she was, back at the scene of the most bewildering, frightening and yet beautiful night of her life. A shiver ran down the length of her spine, but she was unsure whether it was due to fear, cold or anticipation. There was her Angel of Music... no, no, it was apparent now more than ever that he was flesh and blood. Just a man, and a man who upon seeing her uttered a groan of dismay, covering his ravaged face with one hand. He looked... he looked embarrassed, she realised. His head was angled away from her and she only just caught the words he mumbled,

"Oh, _Christine_..."

Even now, after everything that had happened, her name sounded like music on his lips. Madame Giry stood, and crossed to her side. "We will talk about your wisdom in following me later," she said quietly. "In the meantime, are you quite sure you want to do this? He is... well, you can see for yourself."

Christine did see, casting her eye over the devastated library and the unkempt man in the chair. There was no sign of the regal, commanding Phantom here. In his place sat the very human creature who had wept as she timidly returned his mask. She nodded, and Madame Giry glided past her into the hall.

"I will be here if you need me," she said, and closed the door behind her.

Silence reigned in the room for some time. Christine did not like to move from her position lest she damage something by crushing it accidentally underfoot. Her Angel... no, _Erik_, that was what Madame Giry called him. He had a name and she should use it; in all the time she had thought him a celestial messenger from her father it never occurred to her to ask what he was called. He sat still in the chair, deliberately not looking at her; she could see the tense muscles in his neck and jaw as he evidently struggled to retain his composure.

Eventually, she could stand it no longer and began to pick her way carefully towards him, gathering up discarded books as she went. By the time she reached him she had an impressive stack, balanced with both hands and tucked beneath her chin; she set it on the table at his elbow, hiding the crystal decanter and glass with its dregs of brandy from view.

"You should not have come," he said hoarsely.

She regarded him, her head on one side. He looked so dreadfully tired; it would seem that the past two weeks had been no easier upon him than they had been for her. "Would you like me to go?" she asked. "I will do so if you wish."

After a pause, he shook his head. She took the gesture as permission to remain and sat down in the little tapestry chair Madame Giry had vacated. As she did, he turned, thankfully keeping his hand over the right side of his face. Christine was grateful; she had not caught more than a glimpse of his deformity before he quickly covered it and been terrified far more by his anger, but she did not want to upset him by any involuntary reaction she might have to it now.

He looked at her with apparently genuine confusion. "Why did you come down here, Christine? Would you play Persephone with me?"

"You have missed our lessons," she said. "I have never known you fail to keep our appointments; you have chided me for my tardiness more than once in the past. When I heard nothing from you I was worried."

Erik blinked, incredulity in his mismatched eyes. "You were worried... about _me_?"

"Of course." Impulsively, she laid her hand over the long, elegant fingers that rested on the arm of his chair. It was not until she touched his cold skin that she realised what she had done; instinctively she wanted to jerk away in shock, but forced herself not to move lest it seem like a rejection. "Should I not be?"

He peered at her hand warily, as though he thought it might bite him. "I would not have expected it, less deserved it. Our last encounter ended rather abruptly, did it not?"

Christine turned her gaze to the floor, feeling her cheeks burn as shame welled up within her at the recollection of that horrible morning after the gala. Though he had frightened her, made her for a few dreadful moments actually fear for her life, in the cold light of day when she had had time to consider her actions she could neither explain nor excuse what she had done. "We both made mistakes, I think. Angel - "

"Please, Christine, don't call me that." The visible side of his face creased in pain. "I am no angel."

"Then what shall I call you? Monsieur le Phantom? Maestro?" She glanced up at him shyly. "Erik?"

For several long seconds he just stared at her as if frozen. His eyes glittered in the gaslight and he swallowed hard; when he spoke his voice was husky. "I would... I would be honoured."

"Thank you... Erik." Christine smiled, and to her delight saw a glimmer of an answering smile twist the corner of his mouth before he stood abruptly, clearing his throat. He strode over to the piano, hands reaching for something on the rich cloth which covered the instrument, and when he turned to face her once more he was wearing his mask. Smoothing down his hair, he ruefully surveyed the devastation that surrounded him.

"Mon Dieu, this place is a mess," he muttered, dropping to his haunches and beginning to pick up some of the crumpled sheets of manuscript paper which littered the rug. Christine fell to helping him, and between them they began to put the library to rights. She was surprised by how comfortable it felt, the silence between them companionable this time rather than foreboding. Eventually, she was sure she heard Erik humming under his breath and could not help but join in.

"I have neglected your tuition," he said, taking the cushions she passed to him and replacing them on the sofa, which was standing again in its rightful spot before the fire. "We will resume your lessons tomorrow; you must be ready to take on the Countess in _Il Muto_."

Christine paused as she folded an afghan and frowned. "But I'm not to play the Countess, Erik." Angry tears prickled in her eyes as she remembered how humiliated she had felt when the parts were announced; how was it possible to descend from leading lady to a minor role so quickly? Carlotta's triumphant smile had been enough to make her want to flee the stage, to hide somewhere dark and never come out.

"_Not_ the Countess?" Erik had suddenly become very still, his fingers digging into the cushion he still held. "Then which role have you been assigned?"

"They cast me as Serafimo – the pageboy."

"The _mute_ pageboy?"

Christine nodded miserably. There was a loud ripping noise and she jumped; when she raised her head she realised that Erik had torn the fabric of the cushion's damask cover almost in half. With a snarl he threw the thing aside, scattering feathers over the Persian rug, and whirled around, heading for a writing desk in the corner. Snatching up paper and pen, he called over his shoulder,

"Antoinette! I need you to deliver a note for me."

The door opened and Madame Giry appeared, carrying a tea tray. She set it down on the side table and calmly began to pour three cups, for all the world as though she had not spent the last half an hour standing out in the hallway. Christine accepted the cup she was handed and watched as the ballet mistress took another to Erik. He ignored the tea, writing so furiously that the nib of his pen nearly tore right through the paper. The visible side of his face was thunderous; he looked as he had that morning when she pulled away his mask. Christine trembled, her cup rattling slightly in its saucer. This was not the Erik she wanted to see; it was not her gentle Angel of Music who stood there stabbing the pen into the ink pot with such alarming ferocity.

"What... what are you going to do?" she asked, but her voice emerged in a dry whisper and he did not hear her.

"To whom is this note addressed?" Madame Giry enquired.

"Those two dolts who believe they run _my_ theatre! Daring to ignore my instructions...! They think they know better, but they will learn." Erik straightened, and passed her the envelope. It was edged with black, just like mourning paper. He took up his tea. "Oh, they will learn, or they will have to deal with the consequences."

Christine felt that strange shiver down her spine once more. There was more than a hint of danger in his tone, and she didn't like it. Though the lion had been wounded, it seemed that he still knew how to roar.


	14. Confounding Carlotta

**Author's Note:**

These are going to jump about a bit again, as I saw the show in the West End for the second time last week and I have quite a few ideas. This one came from wanting to do something with Wendy Ferguson's Carlotta. :)

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><p><strong>CONFOUNDING CARLOTTA<strong>

"I am-a telling you, I will not-a stand for any more of these... _stupido_ games! You are my manager, you should find 'oever is be'ind them an-a get rid of 'im!"

Antoinette was practically swept aside as La Carlotta came storming through, chased by Monsieur Lefevre and scattering stagehands and ballerinas in her wake. Despite her ample frame and heavy, over-decorated skirts, she could move at a considerable pace when it suited her and had absolutely no consideration for anyone who might happen to get in her way. Madame Giry had once seen a traction engine driven with much the same attitude and a very similar effect. All those with any sense of self-preservation jumped to one side when the temperamental diva was on the rampage: her swinging parasol caught the legs of the unwary; Lefevre ducked before the bobbing fox tails of her stole smacked him in the face.

"It was a prank, Signora, nothing more than a childish prank," the manager said in what he obviously hoped was a conciliatory tone. "You may be sure that I will get to the bottom of it, and when I do the culprit will be dealt with severely. _Most_ severely."

"An-a do you call all of these... these _indignities_ pranks?" Carlotta demanded. "First the fish 'eads in-a the dressing table and then all of my costumes shrinking? I cannot fit into anything!"

"I am not entirely sure they _all_ shrank, Signora," Lefevre muttered. A snigger, hastily smothered, came from somewhere behind.

She glared at him. "What-a was that?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing! I will of course look into all of these... inconveniences."

"See that-a you do. Any more of them and I will-a be going back to Milan. They know 'ow to treat a star of my... my..." Carlotta struggled for the French. She snapped her fingers impatiently, obviously expecting a suitable prompt.

"Magnitude?" offered Madame Giry with a raised eyebrow.

Oblivious to the sarcasm, the Prima Donna nodded. "Si, si! They treat Carlotta properly at La Scala. This place, it is full of... of _sciocch_i! _Idioti_!" Abandoning French entirely, she moved off again, barrelling along the corridor, keeping up a constant stream of invective as she went.

A low chuckle ran around the walls. Starting at one side of the passage it bounced back and forth, up and down. Hearing it, one of the ballet rats startled, peering around her with wide eyes. "The Ghost! He's here!" she cried.

"Don't be so ridiculous, Chantelle," Antoinette snapped. "Be about your business, girl!"

The dancer scuttled off, leaving Madame Giry alone in the shadows. Well, _almost_ alone. She could feel a presence nearby; it came as no surprise to her that _he_ was behind the recent annoyances plaguing Carlotta. Leaning into a corner near to the apparent source of the laughter, she said quietly, "Really, Erik, is this sort of behaviour not beneath you?"

"You must allow a Phantom his amusements, Madame." His voice brushed her left ear; though she couldn't see him, he was somewhere nearby, probably inside the wall. He had secret tunnels all over the theatre, one of which no doubt opened into Carlotta's dressing room.

"Fish heads? Surely you have more finesse than that."

"Crude, but effective. It saved the kitchen boy having to dispose of them and Carlotta's performance certainly stinks." His amusement at the trick was obvious. Antoinette had never asked his age but guessed that he was at least of her own if not older; in spite of that, he sometimes reminded her of a particularly malevolent schoolboy.

"Why Carlotta, and why now? She has been here for two years, and has been a thorn in your side all that time," she pointed out. "Why pick on her now?"

Erik's voice became immediately serious. "Does she not deserve a little _attention_ from the resident ghost?" he enquired silkily.

Madame Giry watched the diva berate one of the young runners who had unwisely stepped in her way; the poor lad was practically quaking beneath an angry and virtually incomprehensible tirade of Italian. "She is a dreadful woman, but if she leaves the theatre will struggle. Lefevre will never find another Prima Donna at such short notice, and the production will make a loss. That is not good for business."

"I care little for business. That harpy destroys every score put before her. Her presence here is an insult to music."

"If the Opera fails, there will _be_ no music. Have you considered that?" Antoinette asked.

He did not reply. Carlotta, clipping the unfortunate boy round the ear with her gloves, disappeared into her dressing room. A few moments later, there was a startled scream, making the two ballet rats that happened to be passing jump like frightened rabbits. The costumes they were carrying tumbled to the floor in a profusion of satin and gauze, sequins bouncing left and right. Madame Giry realised that it was Meg and Christine, evidently assisting the wardrobe mistress – Madame Michon, following them, gave a squawk of alarm and hurriedly began to gather up the half-finished garments before they could be damaged any further.

Before she had a chance to retrieve more than a handful, the dressing room door flew open and Carlotta practically catapulted back into the corridor, her face black with anger and something large and worryingly like a human head swinging by its hair in her hand. She ignored Madame Michon's cries, walking straight into the mess of fabric on the floor and trampling some of the poor woman's hard work. Christine had to snatch her hand away to avoid it being crushed beneath the Prima Donna's heel.

"What is _this_?" Carlotta screeched, waving the offending item. "What _is_ it? Is it a prank? _Is_ it?"

"It looks like the donkey's head from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_," said Meg as Lefevre and some of the stagehands came running round the corner, having heard the fuss. The manager took the thing from Carlotta and Madame Giry could finally see it clearly: it was indeed the head of Bottom the donkey from Mendelssohn's ballet, but it had been expertly made up with rouged cheeks, long eyelashes and brilliant carmine lips. It was also wearing one of Carlotta's elaborately-curled wigs. Christine stared at it in astonishment; Meg stifled a giggle and even Antoinette had to cover her traitorous mouth with one hand in order to maintain her stern expression. She knew exactly who was responsible, and she would be having words with him later.

"I do not-a care where it came from, I want to know 'oo did it!" Carlotta was a formidable sight, her hands planted on her hips and her face twisted in fury. Had she been given a helmet and some wings, she would have made an excellent Valkyrie in Wagner's opera of the same name. "Where is he? Bring 'im to me and I will-a show 'im he cannot play 'is games with Carlotta!"

Lefevre handed the donkey's head to Buquet, who was standing behind him. The head fly-man passed it in turn to his assistant, who gave it to the carpenter to his left. The man dropped it discreetly into the wicker basket that housed the laundry. "I am sorry, Signora, but there will have to be an enquiry," the manager said. "I cannot just pin the blame upon anyone!"

"Then that is it, the last straw that is breaking the camel's back!" Carlotta declared, shaking an angry fist under his nose. "That is it. The end. No more La Carlotta at the Opera Populaire. I go bye-bye!"

"Signora!" Lefevre gave chase once more as she stalked off, throwing her fox fur over her shoulder and calling out to Piangi. "Signora, _please_! Let us at least discuss this - !"

"There is-a nothing to discuss! Out of my way, toad!" The diva knocked Christine aside as the girl struggled back to her feet, her arms full of tutus. The dresses scattered on the ground once more, and Christine, red to the roots of her hair, knelt to begin again.

Madame Giry did not miss the angry growl which came from within the walls. It ran round the corridor, gaining volume as it went. Meg shivered and glanced at her mother; Antoinette shook her head. She bent to help the two girls and the wardrobe mistress collect the ruined costumes.

They heard no more from the Phantom as they worked, but though he was quiet for some time afterwards the tricks played on Carlotta did not stop. If anything, they escalated, until the poor woman was almost afraid to look over her shoulder. It was not until years later, at the opening of the disastrous _Il Muto_, as Erik's voice rang through the theatre, that Antoinette realised the Prima Donna had made herself a deadly enemy that day.

"_A toad, Madam? Perhaps it is_ you _who are the toad_!"

The Opera Ghost never forgets.


	15. Monkey Business

**MONKEY BUSINESS**

There was someone watching her.

Christine glanced up, expecting to find that Erik had entered the room without her noticing, but she was still alone in the library. With a shrug, she returned to her book only to feel eyes on her once more. The hairs rose uncomfortably on the back of her neck and she got to her feet, convinced now that her teacher had returned, creeping into the house with his uncanny cat-like tread. She called his name but received no reply; the only sounds punctuating the silence were the steady ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock on the mantelpiece and the crackling of the flames in the grate.

Chiding herself for being silly, Christine picked up her book once more and turned to sit, and it was then that she saw it. On a shelf across the room, half-hidden behind an elaborate table-lamp, sat the monkey music box she remembered from her first morning in Erik's house, the morning that had swiftly ended in disaster. Then it had been beside her bed, playing its haunting little tune as she was awoken by the sound of her maestro's frenzied composing. Intrigued as to why Erik should have moved it, she stepped closer, reaching out a hand. Before she could touch it the mechanism started up as if by magic and the monkey began to move, its paws bringing the cymbals it held almost but not quite together. Christine found herself humming the tune under her breath as the spring gradually wound down. Gently stroking the monkey's fur with one finger she was surprised to find it was cast and painted lead, cold to the touch despite the fire.

"Where did you come from?" she asked the toy. "What stories could you tell?"

"Tales that no lady would ever wish to hear," said a familiar voice behind her.

Christine whirled around, her heart pounding, to see Erik standing in the doorway. He had obviously been outside for he wore his hat and cloak, both of which he removed with a typical flourish as he passed her, throwing them onto the settee. "You startled me," she told him, and he smiled slightly.

"Forgive me. I have played the phantom too long." He looked at her curiously and, realising where her attention was directed, gestured to the music box with one long-fingered hand. "That trinket... interests you?"

She lifted it from the shelf, and the tiny decorations on the monkey's velvet waistcoat tinkled. For some reason, it seemed smaller than when she saw it last; it fitted comfortably in the palm of her hand. "Where did you get it?"

Erik looked at it for some moments before he took the box from her, holding it up to the light. He turned a tiny handle on the side of the barrel organ and the tune began to play once more. A sigh escaped him, and Christine's eyes flitted to his face; though the mask made it hard to tell his expressions, she thought in surprise that he looked terribly sad. Her heart immediately went out to him. "I have had it a very long time," he said quietly. "It was a gift; probably the only gift I have ever received that was given freely, with love."

"It must hold happy memories," said Christine. "I have a necklace, a little silver crucifix. It looks nothing, is not valuable, but it means the world to me for it belonged to my mother. It is all I have of her."

"Did you know your mother, Christine?" he asked, and she shook her head.

"She died a few days after I was born. Childbed fever; the doctors could do nothing for her. My father was devastated. He never married again; he said that I was his gift from Heaven and he wished us always to be together." She felt her eyes mist over again with tears. Though he had been gone nearly five years now, not a day went by when she did not miss him. Wiping at her damp lashes with her sleeve, she said, "What was your mother like?"

Ever the gentleman, with a flick of his wrist Erik produced a starched white handkerchief apparently from thin air and offered it to her. She took it gratefully, allowing him to lead her to the sofa before the fire. He set the music box down upon the table at his elbow as he took his seat in the big wing backed armchair. "Beautiful. I used to think that I would never see another creature so lovely. She had hair of the purest gold and a voice like a bell. My father worshipped the ground she walked on."

"Did you..." Christine sniffed, gradually calming. "Did you lose her early?"

"Lose her?" He laughed harshly, making her jump. "No, my dear, I never lost her. She may still be alive, mouldering in that big old house all by herself. I have never bothered myself to find out. It has been nearly forty years since I last saw her."

"But..." She looked at him, wondering how anyone could behave so callously towards a beloved parent. She would have done anything to have had just a few years with her mother, and what she would not give to see her father again... "How can you - "

"How can I be so cold? So unfeeling?" Erik arched his visible eyebrow and waved a hand towards his mask. "You have seen the monster that lies beneath, Christine. Do you really believe that any woman would willingly take such an abomination to her bosom? She pushed me away from the moment she saw to what sort of creature she had given life."

"Oh..." Christine's own hand flew to her mouth in mortification. "Oh, I didn't mean... that is, I didn't..."

He shook his head. "It matters little now. She bought this before... when she was expecting a perfect child. It sat beside my cradle, obviously forgotten, and it was the only thing I took with me when I left that place. I often wonder why I kept it all these years." His finger stroked the monkey's head much as hers had done earlier, the ring he wore gleaming in the firelight.

"Perhaps because you always hoped that she might, deep down, have loved you?" she ventured, anxiously watching his face. It was so difficult to anticipate his moods, his emotions; she lived in fear of saying or doing the wrong thing. They were learning to be comfortable with each other, as Erik and Christine instead of the girl and her Angel – the last thing she wanted was another scene like that first morning here. He could be terrifying when he wanted to, and she had no wish to provoke him.

He was silent for some time, and then he looked up, meeting her nervous gaze with his strange mismatched one. Gratefully, she saw no anger there, only a mixture of surprise and confusion. "Yes," he said, "You may be right. You truly have no idea how much I envy you, Christine. To have known the true and unconditional love of a parent... you are lucky indeed."

She gave him a wobbly smile. "I never stop giving thanks for it."

Erik rose from his chair, carrying the monkey music box back to its place on the shelf. As he passed, to her surprise he allowed his fingers to lightly brush the back of her hand. It was the first touch he had initiated between them since he brought her down to his home after the gala; usually he was scrupulous about maintaining a distance between them, as though he thought she might find him distasteful. The feel of his skin was still cold but this time she managed to restrain her involuntary shiver.

She watched him as he carefully set the toy back where it belonged, and thought sadly of the lonely, unloved little boy who must have found comfort in its song.

In that moment, the Phantom did not seem quite so frightening after all.


	16. Cat and Mouse

**Author's Note:**

Thank you once again to all those who have reviewed. :)

I felt that the Phantom needed more motivation for the killing of Joseph Buquet, and this chapter is the result of my musings on the subject.

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><p><strong>CAT AND MOUSE<strong>

Joseph Buquet had always been a thorn in Erik's side.

From the minute the man arrived at the Opera House he had been always watching, always listening; poking his nose in where it was not wanted in an apparent quest for something with which to blackmail the managers when it became clear that his work was not up to standard. Erik had known from the first that Buquet would be trouble – the chief of the flies was careless, over-fond of strong drink and attracted to the ballerinas. From above, on the highest catwalks, Erik saw the drunken leering to which he subjected the girls; he had done his best to keep Buquet from forcing his attentions upon any of them, actions which resulted in the renewed rumours about the Phantom, rumours fuelled by the outlandish stories of Buquet himself.

At first Erik found it amusing that the tales were so far from the mark, but over time his suspicions grew as Buquet began to elaborate and get closer and closer to the truth. Though he knew himself to be concealed as he made his way around the building, creeping through passages and climbing into the furthest reaches like a cat, there were times when he felt eyes following him, sharp and covetous eyes which searched only for one thing: a way to improve the lot of their owner. Somehow, despite his claims to the contrary as he blamed his shoddy work upon the Opera Ghost, Buquet knew that he was dealing with flesh and blood rather than a flight of the imagination. Buquet _had_ seen something, and he was waiting for the right moment at which to use his knowledge.

It appeared that the time had come. In between hurried last minute rehearsals for _Il Muto_, Madame Giry had managed to pass on the paper now clenched in Erik's hand. She found it pushed under her office door that morning, and the implication was obvious. He did not need to look at it again to recall the words, scrawled untidily on the dirty scrap:

_Phantom's whore! _

_No doubt the vicomte would be very interested in your dealings with the Opera Ghost._

_How many more will he kill for you, to keep you in his bed? Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!_

Antoinette had been shaken, though she insisted it meant nothing. The fact that she delivered his notes had always made her subject to gossip; over the years she cultivated and maintained her fearsome reputation amongst the cast. It allowed her to remain aloof, untouchable. However, should anyone discover their arrangement it also meant that she was extremely vulnerable. No one would believe that she was not implicated in the extortion (the word of others; Erik preferred to consider it compensation for the ceaseless work he put in to make the Populaire what it was) he practised upon the managers. When she agreed to help him, he promised that no harm would ever come to her or to Meg; if he were exposed, they would be out on the streets, as he would be in no position to protect them from a prison cell.

Somehow, Buquet knew the circumstances of their meeting. But he had not been employed at the Opera until six months _after_ the attack on Antoinette... how could he possibly know what had transpired that night? The events were a secret to all but the two of them and... and the man who escaped. Did Buquet know that disgusting individual? Perhaps he was related him, or to one of the roughs to whom Erik had introduced the loving embrace of the Punjab lasso...

Long fingers crushed the paper into a ball. The whole of Erik's body tensed like a tightened bow-string.

_The lasso_. He had wondered more than once how Buquet knew of it, introducing the weapon into his lurid tales to scare the ballet rats. There could only be one way he could possibly have encountered it: Buquet had been there, in that alley, it had been _his_ punch which knocked Erik's mask to the ground, _his_ knife which caused the injury that ultimately saved his worthless life. Unconsciously, Erik's hand stole to the left side of his ribcage where the scar rested, a souvenir in his skin amongst so many others.

Below, the orchestra was finishing tuning up. The hum of chatter from the audience began to die away as the lights in the auditorium gradually lowered. Erik peered into the wings but he could not see Christine; Carlotta stood there, resplendent in her rococo frills and flounces, a wig of the most immense Marie Antoinette style wobbling on her head and a smug, self-satisfied smile on her fleshy face. The sight made it obvious that those two fools in charge had disobeyed him; they must be fools indeed to court disaster so recklessly! Anger flowing through his veins, Erik grasped a rope and climbed higher, away from the threat of discovery by the stagehands and away from Buquet's prying eyes. He would deal with Andre and Firmin and their ageing Prima Donna; the fly-chief could wait.

* * *

><p>"<em>Behold! She is singing to bring down the chandelier!<em>"

Carlotta ran from the stage in tears, her hand clutching at her traitorous throat. Erik could not contain his laughter, allowing the sound of it to boom across the theatre as the chandelier shook and swayed to his command. On the stage, Christine glanced up fearfully, her eyes meeting his for a second before she was hustled into the wings by Firmin as his partner hastily announced the bringing forward of the Act III ballet. Erik ground his teeth; the idiot even managed to get tangled up with the ballerinas as they entered from stage right!

_Worry not, Christine, this will be another triumph... have I not taught you well?_

There was a sound behind him. Even over the music, the irritating _Dance of the Country Nymphs_, he could hear the footstep. He slid into the deepest shadows, wrapping his cloak around him. Up here there were only narrow walkways, a precarious position for one not used to moving upon such flimsy supports. Erik was as sure-footed as any mountain goat, and he was in his own domain. Buquet might be chief of the flies, but there were places even he would not normally dare to go.

"I smell you, Monsieur le Phantom." The man's gruff, guttural voice was full of the same stomach churning triumph that had been displayed upon the face of La Carlotta. Well, the diva had been humbled and soon the attacker of Antoinette Giry would also learn that one did not cross the Opera Ghost. Erik climbed again, silent as the spectre he claimed to be; Buquet was directly below him, illuminated by the dark lantern he carried. "I know you are here. Come out and perhaps I will not turn you in if we can come to some... arrangement." The smile that stretched his lips was invisible, but Erik knew it was there. "Surely you can spare some of those twenty thousand francs you demand from the managers? I am not an unreasonable man..."

Erik's fingers flexed on the thin noose coiled beneath his cloak. He said nothing, barely even breathing lest the noise should give him away. Quickly he pulled the brim of his hat lower to hide his mask as the beam of the lantern flashed in his direction.

"Come, come, Monsieur," Buquet said, his tone mocking. "What price my silence? Do you really want everyone in this theatre to know that you are a monster, a deformed creature who kills without mercy? A man that they can catch and hand over to the authorities with ease? I'm sure the patrons would be very interested to know about you and Madame Giry..."

"And what of _you_ and Madame Giry?" Erik enquired, his voice low and deadly. He threw it far, behind Buquet's head; the man spun, hand going to the knife in his belt. "What of you and the woman you tried to defile? Do you think they would like to hear about _that_?"

"You have no proof." Buquet suddenly sounded worried; Erik smiled in the darkness. His satisfaction was short-lived, however, as the fly-chief regained some of his confidence with his next words. "Who would believe either of you: a fraudster and his whore? Did you enjoy her, by the way? She's got spirit in her, that one! Maybe she wouldn't have minded your face, if you were good enough to - "

The Punjab lasso was in Erik's hands. In one swift movement he leapt from the catwalk, landing lightly just behind his prey. The wooden boards swung and shuddered beneath their combined weight; Buquet staggered, losing his grip on the lantern. It plummeted downward, the candle thankfully extinguished by the updraft long before it hit the stage behind the backdrop, unnoticed by the dancers.

"Or maybe you prefer our little Mademoiselle Daae?" the wretch asked, with a sly smile, steadying himself on the handrail. "Are pretty young virgins more your style,_ monster_? How exciting it would be to - "

His words were choked off. It was the work of a moment to have the noose around Buquet's neck; Erik pulled it tight, dragging the smaller man into a reluctant embrace. Buquet squirmed, gasping for breath, his hands clutching reflexively at the rope.

"You escaped me once before, Monsieur, but I will not allow it a second time," Erik whispered. "Remember what became of your friends."

"...mercy... please..."

He cocked his head, pretending to consider the words Buquet forced through his constricted throat. "Ah, would that I could offer you such, but did you not claim correctly just moments ago that I am a creature without mercy?"

The fly-chief's eyes bulged; his fingers searched desperately for release, scrabbling at the lasso, at the cords and pulleys that surrounded them, at anything that might help him. His flailing hands caught one of the counterweights for the scenery, and he held on tight, jerking violently away from Erik. Though the Phantom was strong, Buquet's physique was hard and muscular, and he weighed considerably more; the lasso was torn from Erik's grasp as the man hung in empty space for several heart-stopping moments before he fell, plunging downwards with the noose still around his neck. Erik grabbed onto the ropes supporting the catwalk just in time before he too was pulled over the edge; before his partly horrified and partly fascinated eyes Buquet tumbled towards the stage, the trailing end of the lasso catching on a bracket and coiling itself around the metal, becoming taught. Brought up short in his descent, the weight of Buquet's body snapped his neck like a dry twig and he stilled, suspended in mid-air. The painted sylvan glade flew upwards, balanced by the sandbags, revealing the body to all those below, hanging for all the world as though there was a gallows incorporated into the set.

The dancing stopped; the music dying as the orchestra registered the confusion above them. There was a scream of terror from one of the ballet rats, then a long, long moment of complete silence.

Erik didn't dare to move as the theatre abruptly recovered from its paralysis and chaos took over. The stage was a throng of people, cast and crew rushing to get away as the managers shouted for calm, nearly being trampled in the crush. The audience joined the stampede, pushing and shoving each other as they hastened up the aisles, ignoring the shouts of Firmin as he desperately attempted to reassure them that it was merely an accident. There was Antoinette and little Meg, the ballet mistress's eyes searching the darkness above, and behind them...

"Raoul! _Raoul_!" That was Christine, now in the Countess's elaborate dress, looking around for her boy as he raced towards her from the wings against the press of people.

The vicomte took her hand. "Come with me." He tried to lead her backstage, but she pulled away from him. Erik only just made out her words by reading the movement of her lips:

"No, to the roof. We'll be safe there..."

His blood ran cold. Did she really think that... that he would... Did she truly believe that he would hurt _her_?

Buquet's body and the madness below him immediately forgotten, Erik leapt to his feet, running and leaping along the catwalks without even looking where he was going, trusting to his instincts to keep him from following the fly-chief. His one thought was that he had to get to the roof, and he had to get there _now_.

"_Christine_!"


	17. Whispers in the Dark

**WHISPERS IN THE DARK**

"Christine, we can't stay up here, we have to go back! They will be looking for you!"

Erik slid into the shadows around the great statue of Apollo as two figures came hurrying onto the roof, the first running as though she could escape what had happened down below if she only moved fast enough. His heart clenched to see her so, her arms hugging her slender body beneath the green cloak, her beautiful face white and pinched. She was barely paying attention to the cries of the vicomte as he followed her, caught up in her own world of pain. _Oh, Christine_...! He wanted nothing more than to throw himself at her feet, beg her forgiveness for frightening her so. For a moment he was on the verge of showing himself, and to hell with de Chagny, just to tell her the truth, that everything he did was ultimately for her, that she had nothing to fear from him.

"I won't go back there," Christine said, startling him. "If I go back, who is to say that he won't kill _me_ too? I've seen him, I know him; if he murders Joseph Buquet because the man told those stories about him, what chance is there for me?"

_Christine, Christine, no_... Erik found himself reaching out a hand to her as she passed his hiding place, walking dangerously close to the edge of the leads. How could she draw such terrible conclusions? The thought of her broken body on that stage, her neck at a strange angle and her sightless eyes staring up at him, his own angel of music silenced forever... the image made him feel physically sick. He opened his mouth to speak, to deny this hideous idea, but the vicomte was ahead of him.

"Christine, stop this madness. You are safe; this is no more than a nightmare. There _is_ no Phantom!"

She rounded on him, curls flying. "You think that I am making this up, Raoul? That I am allowing myself to be ruled by nothing more than a bad dream?" she demanded shrilly. "I have been down there, to the cellars, where he exists in a terrible unending night. He is a _man_, Raoul, a living, breathing man just like you. But his face... his _face_..." She became quite still, and Erik held his breath. Her eyes were haunted as she spoke again. "Oh, horror, horror... how can anyone bear such a curse? I have seen nothing like it before, so distorted, deformed... it was hardly a face at all."

The force of her words hit Erik like a blow to the stomach. He hunched over involuntarily against the pain. How _could_ she describe him so after all that they had shared? He had allowed himself to think that they were becoming closer, moving beyond that dreadful misunderstanding over his mask, that she was beginning to see the man behind it at last, to accept him for himself. Had it all been a lie, to punish him for his own deception? Did she really still see him as no more than a disfigured beast?

"You are overwrought," Raoul said, and she shook her head. "Anyone would be after what just happened. But nothing can harm you; the Phantom is no more than a monster conjured by the dark."

"No, he is much, much more than that. Phantom of the Opera, Angel of Music... he freed my voice, taught me to soar. I have never heard melodies in the same way as when I am with him; I almost feel that I _am_ the music, that I have wings and can fly to Heaven on its back. He showed me how to feel, how to live again. And I have wronged him." Christine's gaze moved unconsciously to the very spot in which Erik stood, shrouded in the shadows. "I can see the adoration in his eyes when he looks at me; they plead for understanding, for the love of another, so desperately. And yet... within him there is such darkness... how can someone capable of so much beauty have such ugliness in their soul? He is a murderer, and who is to say that he would not kill a thousand men to get what he wanted?"

De Chagny called her name, and the sound drew from Erik a whispered echo which hung in the air around them.

Christine glanced around, her trembling fingers drawing her cloak about her chin. "Did you hear that?"

"Christine." The vicomte laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. "Forget these terrified imaginings. Let me take you away from here, somewhere no ghosts and monsters can touch us. There will be no accidents, no demands, just you and I, together."

She looked at him sadly. "Oh, Raoul. If only that were true."

"It_ is_ true. I will look after you; keep you safe from all of this insanity. Whatever is scaring you, making you talk so wildly, we will leave behind. Once we are away from the Opera, you will be free."

Christine's eyes searched his face, raising her hand to brush away a lock of fair hair from his brow. "Freedom is all I want. It feels as though I have never been truly free."

Taking her hands in his, de Chagny drew her away from the edge of the roof and away from Erik, who, even though he knew he should leave them and stop torturing himself, could not move. For a moment his hopes had been raised when she spoke so vividly and with such feeling about their shared muse, but within a breath she brought the fragile edifice crashing down once more. How could he have believed that she might care for him? Foolish Erik to have forgotten his place in the world!

"I will give you that freedom, Christine," the vicomte was saying now. "No more darkness, I promise. Just come with me."

She gazed at him wonderingly. "Raoul, do you mean - "

He dropped to one knee before her. "Yes. Christine, I love you. Will you let me take you away from all the horror and the hurt?"

A moan escaped Erik's lips, but if either of them heard it they gave no sign for they were too wrapped up in one another. Before his anguished eyes they embraced, Christine's happiness fairly shining from her face as Raoul gathered her into his arms and twirled her about the roof as though they were dancing to a tune only heard by lovers. His heart felt as though it might burst from his chest to shatter there and then on the floor. Unable to stand the sickly sight any longer, he turned away, covering his ears to shut out their exclamations of devotion.

When he could bear to look once more they were heading for the door to return to the theatre. Andre and Firmin would do anything to avoid having to issue a refund to the patrons and had no doubt concocted some story between them to explain Buquet's death. The show would go on, and for that they would need Christine. In mere moments she had recovered her poise, pushing her fright away as she denied her teacher, the man who had laboured so long to make her what she was and without whom she would not be descending to play the Prima Donna. It was all forgotten with a kiss from a golden-haired boy.

"Wait for me outside the stage door," she was saying to the vicomte. "I will join you immediately after we take our bows."

He laid a kiss on the dainty hand he held, and smiled at her. "And I shall whisk you away."

"Into the light. Oh, Raoul, I long to feel the sun on my face again..."

Their voices faded as they descended the stairs. Only when he was sure they had gone did Erik dare to stumble out from behind the statue, to fall to his knees on the cold stone. He did not feel the impact, anger and misery in equal parts coursing through him. In all his years, through all the trials and uncertainties he had faced, hounded out of places and treated like a pariah because of his appearance, nothing had ever hurt like this. Even seeing his mother laughing and petting other women's children while he watched from afar, abandoned and neglected, could not cause the same gut-wrenching agony which now held him in its grip.

She was going away. His Christine was leaving him. After all that he had done, all that he had given to her, she was running, escaping... escaping from _him_! He was an Angel of Music no longer, nothing more now than a demon, a devil from whom she could be rescued by her handsome prince on a white horse. He heard her damning words over and over in the silence that surrounded him:

_I have seen nothing like it before, so distorted, deformed... it was hardly a face at all._

He covered that tormented face with his hands, unable to control the sobs which shook his body. "Christine... oh, _Christine_..!" It was a wail of despair, and he no longer cared if he were heard. Tonight he wanted to share his pain with the world; it was too great for him to bear alone.

Throwing his head back, the tears streaming down his face, he screamed, her name becoming an inhuman howl, spiralling up into the clear night sky towards the stars which mocked him with their sparkling brightness. His hands clenched into fists. They would pay for this, all of them. How dare they defy him! Oh, _how_ they would pay...

"_You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you_!"


	18. Walking On Broken Glass

**WALKING ON BROKEN GLASS**

"Well, Monsieur? Are you happy now? Is this the result you intended?"

Madame Giry stared, appalled, at the wreck which lay upon the stage. The iron struts of the chandelier were twisted and warped beyond repair, the crystal drops shattered and the pieces scattered every which way. It took up most of the space; while it hung gracefully and elegantly above their heads she had not realised that it was so big. Where a few short hours before it had been a thing of beauty, now it was a corpse, broken and battered, a shadow of its former self.

It would cost a fortune to replace.

Not that the man who had caused its destruction, and nearly brought the whole theatre down around their ears, cared about that. Though he tried to hide himself from her, she could make out his shape in the moonlight that streamed through the glass dome in the roof, see the flowing lines of his cloak and the faint gleam of his mask. He stood turned away, attempting to ignore her presence, but Antoinette was not one to ever keep her peace when the situation warranted words.

"Do you ignore me, sir?" she demanded. "Do you not even defend your actions? I am surprised to still find you here after your performance tonight."

At last he spoke, and his voice was as dry as dust. "Go away, Madame. I do not wish to hear your scolding."

She strode towards him, glass crunching beneath her shoes, her cane beating time on the boards. In the silvery light, the stage almost appeared to have been sprinkled with fairy dust. It glittered, mocking them both. "I will not be silenced this time, Erik," she snapped. "My daughter was standing here when you brought down that chandelier, she was no more than two feet away from where I am now. My little Meg... she could have been killed! You gave me your solemn word that she would never come to harm and tonight you could have been the cause of her death! Am I to push such an action aside, forget it never happened? How can I possibly forgive you for _this_?"

His back was still turned to her; angrily she reached out and grasped his shoulder, spinning him around. To her surprise, he did not fight, merely turned to face her, raising his head so that she could see beneath the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. He looked at her without speaking for a long time; the moonlight caught the visible side of his face and Antoinette stifled a gasp for there were the tracks of tears on his cheek. The porcelain surface of his mask was similarly wet, and his mouth was contorted in despair.

"Look all you wish, Madame," he said thickly, his bloated lower lip trembling even now. "See how the mighty Phantom can be reduced to a snivelling child at the hands of a woman."

Madame Giry's fingers tightened on his arm, feeling the tense muscles beneath the heavy fabric of his sleeve. He was shaking, she realised. Her fury left her as though it had been drained away. "Oh, Erik."

"She hates me, Annie. You should have heard the names she called me, up there on the roof. Distorted, deformed... apparently this ruin of a face hardly even merits the description." Erik pulled himself away and walked to the edge of the stage, wiping at his eyes. "What did I do to deserve that? All I ever wanted was to please her, to nurture her talent, to give her voice its wings. I offered her everything I had, and between them, she and her boy, they crushed it beneath their feet. I have harboured a traitoress all this time."

Cautiously, she followed, skirting around the remains of the chandelier and the smashed boards beneath it. She risked a glance upwards; thankfully Buquet's body had been removed by the police. It was doubtful that she could ever find the words to describe how it had felt to see the thing hurtling towards the dancers – the sight would be with her for some time to come when she closed her eyes. Firmly, she put the memory aside. "Christine was scared, Erik. After what happened tonight can you really blame her?"

"I would never have touched a hair on her head! She had nothing to fear from me." A choked sob escaped his throat and he sank down between the cold, dark footlights, his cloak falling like the night around him. "I would _never_ have..."

"And Joseph Buquet? What of him?"

A harsh laugh made her jump. "You should be grateful that he is out of the world after what he tried to do to you. I may be rotting in hell, but there is a lower pit than mine and he will not escape it."

"Erik," said Antoinette, not sure she wanted to hear the answer but knowing she had to ask, "Did you kill him?"

"Would you believe me if I said I didn't?" When she hesitated, he continued, "What does it matter? Everyone will believe the Phantom is responsible." He glared at her through the tears which still clouded his strange eyes. "Terror is useful to me. Why should I not create more of it?"

"And when the police come for you? I will not say that I truly regret his death, but there will be an inquest, and everyone heard you tonight. They will not necessarily rule that it was an accident." Carefully, avoiding the shards of glass which littered the floor, she sat down beside him. He hunched over, drawing up his long legs and wrapping his arms around them, curling into himself.

"They will not find me. No one shall find me. Not even her, should she want to. And she will not want to. That much is obvious."

Antoinette moved a little closer, resting her hand on his arm once more. Incredibly, he did not shy away. "It would seem that she loves him, Erik, and he loves her. I know it is not what you hoped for but you cannot change that."

"_I_ love her!" he said fiercely. "What can that child give her? A handsome face and a fortune, yes, but what of her _soul_? Can _he_ make her soar as she does with me? She _is_ my music, Annie, my angel. What will I do without her?" His voice cracked and he gulped for breath, desperately trying to control himself. He buried his head in his hands, the elusive, untouchable Phantom reduced to a quivering mass of black serge and jet beads.

Feeling tears spring to her own eyes, Madame Giry drew him close, taking off his hat and resting his head on her shoulder as though he were a little boy. It was possibly the strangest situation in which she had ever found herself, sitting here in the dark amidst the remains of the grand chandelier, comforting a distraught Opera Ghost. "Oh, my dear," she murmured, stroking his hair as he sobbed into her coat and wondering if he had ever just been held like this before. "I wish there was something I could say to make it better."

"She betrayed me," he whispered. "I can never forget that. Why would she do such a thing?"

"I wish I knew," Antoinette said sincerely. Christine had appeared to be more relaxed, more comfortable with her maestro over the past few weeks. She had thought that the young soprano was beginning to understand, had been secretly proud of her for summoning her courage and putting the nervousness and apprehension she naturally felt towards him to once side. It was clear that Erik would give Christine the world, if she did but ask, and Madame Giry had not thought her pupil ungrateful. Christine was not callous, nor cruel; in fact she was one of the most compassionate girls Antoinette had ever met. If she truly felt nothing for the man who had been her companion, her confidant, for so long, then why should she have allowed the relationship to continue after Erik's deception was revealed? It would have been easy to put an end to the association, especially given the presence of the vicomte, but she had not done so. Antoinette knew more than anyone how terrifying Erik could be, and he had certainly surpassed himself tonight, but was it truly fear that led Christine to say what she had?

It was impossible to tell. Only Christine knew for sure, and she was gone. Madame Giry tightened her arms about the broken man she held and wondered what would become of him now.


	19. Silent Night

**SILENT NIGHT**

It was late, and the theatre was quiet, the workmen obviously having finished for the Christmas holiday.

As she had done on many occasions over the past few months, Christine slipped into the building through a side door which was always unlocked, and made her way swiftly towards her old dressing room. She did not tell Raoul about these evening visits, sneaking out of the house when he was not at home for he would talk her out of her intentions. He was caught up in some business venture at present and often unavoidably detained; on these nights she pleaded the headache and retreated to her room, unable to spend the hours making stilted small-talk with the Comtess and her daughters. They accepted her on the surface because Raoul had declared that he loved her and would marry no one else, but Christine knew that she was not seen as wifely material for the heir to the Comte de Chagny. One watched chorus girls, lusted after them and attempted to seduce them, they did not invite them into the drawing room for tea.

Tonight there was a family gathering at the Hotel de Chagny, to celebrate the festive season, but Christine was not invited. Raoul did his apologetic best, popping up to see her at regular intervals, but his presence was always demanded downstairs by his mother and elder brother, to entertain the ladies. Christine didn't really mind, as a party was the last place she wanted to be, but she could not deny the feelings of loss and loneliness which consumed her when he left. Assuring him that she was quite all right and would probably read before going to bed, she tiptoed down the back stairs and walked the by now familiar route to the bottom of the long gravelled drive where she hailed a cab for the short journey to the Opera. It was not entirely safe to be travelling alone so late in the evening, but she knew that Raoul would not approve and this was something she had to do whether she received his support or not.

It did not take her long to negotiate the darkened corridors. Though there was obviously still some work to be done, even with the aid of a lamp she could see that the theatre was nearly ready to reopen. She took out her key and unlocked the door to the dressing room. Familiarity enclosed her as she entered; the mirror was still there, dominating the little chamber. Her heart leapt once again at the sight of it. Idly she had wondered why it had not been removed, but then reasoned it was likely that no one else knew of the passageway hidden behind. Though she tried, she could not find the catch which allowed the mirror to turn on its pivot, allowing access to the tunnels beyond. Lighting some candles and drawing up a chair she sat down, facing her own reflection. She lost count of how many times she had done this over the last six months, reaching out to him with her voice and her song. Though he _must_ have heard her, must be somewhere below, he never once answered her. At odd moments, when her despair began to break through, she decided that he must be dead, that they had found him and rid themselves of the Phantom once and for all, but she could not truly believe it. He was there, and eventually he must come; he would be unable to resist siren call of his own Angel of Music.

And so she sang, for what seemed like hours. She invested everything in that private performance, singing, as she had done so often, only for him, until, exhausted, she leaned her hot forehead against the glass and let the tears that prickled in her eyes spill onto her cheeks. There was nothing, no response, no presence behind the mirror. Her only audience was silence. In that moment, Christine had never felt so alone.

"Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory..." she whispered. "Angel... Maestro... Erik... I'm here, I came back... please don't shut me out..."

The reflection which met her as she raised her head stared back with the wild-eyed gaze of a girl so worried and confused that she looked almost hunted. She was thin and pale, dark circles beneath her eyes, her white face blossoming from the darkness around her like that of a ghost. _Or a phantom,_ she thought, _how appropriate_...

"You probably don't want to see me," she said, talking directly to the mirror, "and I honestly don't know what I would say to you if we were face to face at this very moment. I don't know why you did what you did, whether you killed Monsieur Buquet or if it truly was an accident... I don't know what to think, but I don't want my Angel to be a murderer. I don't want him to be the Phantom. I just want my teacher, my protector, my _friend_, here with me again."

"He will not come."

The voice made Christine jump. She spun round in her chair and stared in astonishment at the woman standing in the doorway; Madame Giry had approached without a sound, concealing herself in the shadows. The ballet mistress's face was hard, gaunt, her expression one of disapproval.

"Madame, what are you doing here so late? Should you not be with Meg tonight?" The Girys had always attended Midnight Mass and then returned to the Opera for the traditional Christmas feast. It was obvious, however, that such an event would not be happening this year; for the present the company was dispersed while the repairs were completed.

"I could ask you the same question," Madame Giry said. "Instead I shall ask this one: why have you come back here, Christine? Is it to make an apology or to cause more pain?"

Christine stiffened. She had never heard such coldness in her old instructor's voice before. "What do you mean? I am still a member of the company, and I have every right to be here if I choose," she said, the suddenly frosty atmosphere in the room making her defensive. A little voice in her head pointed out that since she had effectively run away after the disaster of _Il Muto_ she might not even be a member of the chorus any more. Letters had come from the Populaire but she had foolishly allowed Raoul to set them aside, declaring that she was still too shaken to deal with them. That had been some time in August; now it was the end of December. Did she still _have_ a job?

Madame raised an eyebrow. "At this time of night on Christmas Eve, a week before the theatre is due to officially reopen and when the casting of the next production is still up in the air? Of course, it is quite natural that you should be here. Tell me the truth, Christine: have you come to see _him_? If so, you will be disappointed."

A lead weight seemed to settle in Christine's chest. Hesitantly she asked, "He is not... is not... dead?"

"He could be. Anything could happen to him down there on his own and no one would ever know." Madame Giry walked over to the mirror, her reflection looming up beside Christine's, her black dress and fur-trimmed coat stark in the dim light. She looked... sad, Christine realised. "I have not seen him since the night of _Il Muto_. He sealed up every entrance to the cellars I know of, and there have been no notes, no instructions. The Phantom is, to all intents and purposes, gone. When we heard nothing for two months, those idiots, Firmin and Andre, cracked open the champagne."

_Gone_... Christine could barely comprehend such a thing. No doubt the Opera without its Ghost would be a completely different place, no undercurrent of fear and trepidation, no dramatic stories and strange occurrences. But no Opera Ghost meant no Angel of Music. No _Erik_... She could not imagine the theatre without him.

"Where is your vicomte, child?" Madame Giry asked, her beady eye falling on the diamond engagement ring which hung on a chain around Christine's neck. Self-consciously she covered it with her hand, tucking it back into the bodice of her dress. Though she had attempted to wear it there many times it had never felt truly comfortable on her finger. "There is no place for you here now, not after all that has happened."

"I can't leave. I can't stay away; I tried _so_ hard, but something here keeps drawing me back. I can't stay away from _him_, Madame, I _need_ him." The words came out in a rush, and she did not realise exactly what she had said until they hung in the air and she could not take them back. "I discovered that I can't sing without him, not truly; he made me what I am, and without his guidance I am nothing more than an automaton, remembering the lines but unsure of the meaning."

"Perhaps your discovery was made too late. You must consider the consequences of your actions, Christine. Do you only need Erik to help you sing? If that is the case, then return to Raoul and forget your angel. Do not raise his hopes again; I doubt if he could stand it."

"Madame Giry, why are _you_ here?" Christine could not help asking the question.

The ballet mistress sighed. "I have been walking the corridors at night for some time now, hoping that just once he might show himself and prove to me that he is all right. Though he may pretend to be a Phantom, underneath he is just as vulnerable as the rest of us, and tonight of all nights... I did not want him to be alone."

"He will not be alone, Madame. I will be here."

"And what of your fiancé?" Madame Giry enquired.

"Raoul will be occupied for an hour or two more. He will not miss me," Christine said truthfully. "My Angel was my comfort for a long time. Now I wish to be the same for him, even if he does not realise."

Madame inclined her head. "Make sure that you truly know what you want, Christine. It would seem to me that you have two men who love you, a very privileged position for any woman. Affections are not to be trifled with."

Christine met the sharp gaze steadily; for the first time in her life she did not feel intimidated by the ballet mistress. "I do not intend to trifle with anyone's affections, Madame."

With a nod, Madame Giry moved towards the door. As she reached it, Christine asked without turning round,

"_Did_ Erik kill Joseph Buquet?"

There was a long pause. Christine held her breath. Eventually Madame said,

"I do not know. But the man was a nasty piece of work who hurt more than one person in this theatre. Do not waste your tears on him."

The door closed behind her, leaving Christine once more with just her reflection for company. She stared at it for some time, seeing past her own face to the passage she knew to be behind it. In her memory she traced the twists and turns, the winding staircases and cobwebbed tunnels, ending at last by the edge of the lake where a black and gold gondola was moored, bobbing gently in the inky water. Beyond that lake lay a house set into the rock of the Opera House's foundations, its door concealed from prying eyes, and inside the house a man sat before a magnificent pipe organ, the music he played echoing through the sprawling cellars and sometimes heard faintly by those in the world above. Oh, how she wished she could hear that music now, have it fill her with strange and unfathomable emotions, be enfolded in its dark and dangerous embrace.

_You have two men who love you..._

Could Madame Giry be right? Erik had never said as much to her, had never so much as touched her with more than fatherly affection and certainly not mentioned the word love in her presence. Raoul's devotion shone in his eyes whenever he laid them upon her, obvious for all to see. But he had been brought up knowing that he was accepted and cared for; he could afford to take love for granted because it was freely offered. Christine remembered the little Erik had told her of his mother, how she had been afraid of his face and would not even put her arms around him. How did one show love when they had always been denied it? How do you reach out to another when you have always been alone?

She thought again of the underground house and its occupant, of the echoing passages and the heavy, oppressive silence which surrounded him. Down below in his twilight world did he even know that it was Christmas Eve? Had he ever spent this night with another living soul? Was he lonely, in that little house on his own?

So many questions and no hope of an answer. She closed her eyes and began to sing once more, her voice clear and pure in the darkened hush of the empty theatre:

Silent night, holy night

All is calm, all is bright

Round yon virgin mother and child,

Holy infant so tender and mild,

Sleep in heavenly peace

Sleep in heavenly peace

As she let the final notes die away, she hoped that she might hear movement behind the mirror, but there was nothing. His presence, which over the months she had become so good at divining, was entirely absent. Disappointed, Christine slumped in her chair. She had tried so hard to reach him, only to fail once again.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour, and she jumped. Midnight! How the evening had flown; Raoul would probably be creeping towards her room even now, hoping that she would still be awake so that they could exchange a Christmas kiss. Like Cinderella she gathered her things, in a hurry to leave before the magic disappeared. Bending her head she pressed a kiss against the cold glass of the mirror. "Merry Christmas, Angel," she whispered.

* * *

><p>A few minutes later, there was a gust of cold and musty air as the mirror turned slightly. Light from a lantern spilled through the gap, silhouetting the man holding it against the wall of the passage behind him.<p>

"Christine...?" he called softly, a hopeful note in his voice.

The room was empty but for a single candle still burning on the dressing table.

It was too late; Christine Daae had gone.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I just want to say thank you once again to those of you who have been reading and enjoying this story. I appreciate each and every review.

Merry Christmas to you all! :)


	20. Death and Madame

**DEATH AND MADAME**

It would be a night to remember.

Messrs Andre and Firmin had spared no expense with the bal masque they decided to throw on the thirty-first of December. Wine and champagne flowed, there was a groaning buffet prepared by the finest chefs in Paris and the orchestra had been rehearsed within an inch of their lives by Monsieur Reyer and his conductor in order to provide the music to which the exalted guests would dance. For years the Opera House had traditionally hosted a gala on New Year's Eve; the managers thought it particularly fitting that they should preside over such an event in honour of the reopening of the theatre.

From the sidelines, keeping as much to the shadows as possible in order to observe, Madame Giry watched them, laughing and congratulating each other for their removal of the Phantom. Andre had even come dressed ridiculously as a skeleton, much to their combined amusement. She wondered how much of the champagne they had already sampled; Firmin in particular looked less than steady on his feet, and was plainly ogling the female guests as they arrived, decked out in the finest the Parisian tailors had to offer. One lady in scandalously sheer drapery, her generous curves more than suggested, took his interest for quite some time, until, with a flirtatious glance in his direction, she was swallowed up by the crowd. It did not matter – within moments his attention had been diverted by the plunging neckline of a gaudy Marie Antoinette.

"I'm impressed, Andre," Firmin declared, raising his glass to his partner. "The cream of Paris society, the new chandelier... quite a night, old man, quite a night."

Andre sketched a bow in reply, and attempted to look modest. "One does one's best, my dear fellow. For once, I may dare to hope that the newspapers will be discussing us for reasons other than that of relating scandal."

"Ah, but the publicity, don't forget that. No such thing as bad publicity." Firmin hiccupped. "All the same, since he's the orchestrator of the event, it's rather a pity that the Phantom can't be here!"

Andre stared at his friend for a long moment, before their eyes met and Firmin gave a drunken grin. Madame Giry ground her teeth as the two guffawed mightily before turning and ascending the grand staircase to greet some more privileged guests. She watched the footmen announce the latest arrivals, too far away to hear their names, and then froze as she recognised the couple who entered to accept the managers' fawning attentions. Dressed as a hussar, and looking noble and handsome in his braided uniform, was the Vicomte de Chagny, and on his arm Christine Daae shimmered in pink and blue tulle, her hair and skirts scattered with silver stars. The dress was daring, displaying her milky-white shoulders, and she looked a little uncomfortable as Andre bent over her hand; even from this distance, Antoinette could see that there was still no engagement ring on her finger.

The two descended the grand escallier, Raoul confident of his place in society and his right to be amongst the assembled great and good, Christine's nervousness more and more apparent the closer she got to Madame Giry's dark corner. She seemed to be clinging to rather than holding her fiancé's arm; her eyes darted right and left, as though expecting danger to appear from any direction.

"They came, then," said a little voice at Antoinette's shoulder, and she turned to see Meg standing there, looking at her friend in concern. "I almost didn't think they would."

"It would appear from Christine's expression that she would rather be somewhere else."

"I think it was Raoul's idea that they should attend, not Christine's. He wanted to get her out into company again, but people are already talking – Carlotta is holding court in the supper room, telling anyone who will listen about Christine and the Phantom. The details are extremely lurid and completely untrue." Meg directed wide eyes to her mother. "Do you think _he_ will come tonight?"

Madame Giry sighed. "I cannot say, ma petite. Everyone believes that he has gone; if they did not, they would think twice before cavorting in this manner."

"You do not agree, though, do you, Maman?" Meg asked. "You think he is still here."

"And what makes you say that?" Antoinette enquired, raising an eyebrow.

Her little ballerina gave her a fondly exasperated glance before returning her attention to Christine. The girl was now gazing around her as though she were desperately seeking someone. "I would have to be blind not to notice all the strange comings and goings over the years. All those notes you left me when you had to 'pop out' for a few hours, the deliveries of food that were too big to be just for the two of us, the night you came home with blood all over your coat..."

"You were barely six years old when that - " Madame Giry caught herself too late, and Meg smiled slightly.

"And then there's the fact that you have always delivered his letters. He gives them to no one else. _You_ take his salary up to Box Five, and he leaves you English sweets in return." She turned her gaze back to her mother, her young face serious. "I _know_, Maman. I've known for years, caught glimpses of him and heard the two of you talking when you thought I was asleep. I was just waiting for you to tell me, to trust me with his secrets."

"Ah, my dear," said Antoinette, adjusting the angle of the tiny riding hat and veil pinned atop Meg's golden curls and smoothing the shoulders of her pink damask jacket. "If I could have done so, I would, but he did not permit it. He is not a man to cross."

Meg submitted to the maternal fussing. "You are worried about him," she remarked. "If you care enough about him to be concerned, he cannot be all bad."

"That is true. However, he is damaged, and wounded and unpredictable. Though he promised me years ago that he would never harm you, should you encounter him I do not want you to approach. Do you understand that, Meg?" Madame Giry touched her daughter beneath her chin, bringing Meg's gaze up to meet hers. "Give me your word that you will stay away from him."

Reluctantly, Meg did so. Though she would never tell her, Antoinette was secretly proud of her only child. Meg might be overlooked by most of the company, dismissed as Little Giry, but she kept her eyes and ears open. Really, it was inevitable that she should have worked out at least part of the truth about Erik, and Antoinette felt a pang of remorse that she had told Christine more about him than she had ever mentioned to her daughter.

Across the room Christine was standing alone and vulnerable for a moment without her vicomte, who was engaged in animated conversation with an overweight Julius Caesar. Their eyes met briefly, and Madame Giry found herself wishing that her former pupil could share Meg's wisdom and maturity. How different things might have been!

* * *

><p>As midnight approached, the ballroom grew hotter and stuffier, the press of people becoming almost unbearable.<p>

Despite her original intentions to the contrary, Antoinette granted a dance or two when asked, rather enjoying herself as she was twirled around the floor. Such was her formidable reputation that most men did not dare to approach her, but surprisingly Monsieur Andre was one brave enough to make the attempt. Though she hesitated he was extremely persuasive; she found him light on his feet and such a competent dancer that she couldn't help wondering exactly how he had come to be managing the Opera in the first place. Meg was obviously enjoying herself, changing partners with every new measure and captivating them all in between finding time to giggle with the other ballet rats over copious glasses of champagne. Madame promised herself that she would chase them all off home by twelve fifteen at the latest, knowing that she would be dealing with sore heads and upset stomachs in the morning. As the evening wore on even Christine seemed to relax a little and was smiling happily as Raoul whirled her past admiring gentlemen and gossiping women, refusing to waltz or polka with anyone but his beautiful fiancée. Her features gradually lost their desperate look and she had eyes for no one but de Chagny.

So far, the ball had continued without incident, but Madame Giry could not help the feelings of apprehension which crept up her spine with increasing frequency as the clock ticked its way past eleven o'clock. If Erik were still there, deep down below, she could not truly believe that he would ignore such an auspicious occasion as this pass without making an appearance. He had been a bitter and broken man when last she saw him; having passed six months in that hole with nothing but his own company would not have improved the situation. The closer they came to the New Year and the unveiling of the new chandelier, the more convinced she became that the Phantom would come to the party.

Slipping away, she snatched up a candle from her office and began to systematically check all of the entrances to the cellars she knew of. He had sealed them, it was true, and there were probably dozens more all over the building, but logic dictated that if he were going to emerge from his self-imposed seclusion he would choose a route which would be easy to re-open and attract as little attention as possible. After trying several possible sites, she realised that there was one tunnel which would be more secluded than any other: that which lay behind the mirror in Christine's empty dressing room.

As she approached, she could see that the door was standing open; shadows shifted beyond it, inside the little room, and Antoinette reached out for them, her fingers grasping fabric, silk and satin sliding against her skin. The figure, indistinct in the yellow candlelight, tried to pull away, but she held on tight. She lifted her light, and gasped as a grinning skull beneath a ludicrously–plumed hat swam into focus, distorted by the flickering of the flame. This vision, wrapped in a blood red velvet cloak, stood stock still before her, a leather folder held tightly against its chest by one long-fingered white hand.

"Dear God..." she breathed, and then jumped as the creature spoke.

"Unhand me, Madame. Red Death is stalking abroad and he is indiscriminate in choosing his victims," it said in Erik's voice, his richly modulated tones clear despite the mask that covered his entire face. There was ice and anger in that voice, and Madame Giry felt her blood run cold at the sound. She slowly released her hold on his sleeve and waited for him to leave, but to her surprise he remained standing behind the door, waiting as she lit the wick of the lantern which had been left on the dressing table and turned up the flame.

The increase in light revealed him in all his glory. He was not a small man, but the profusion of feathers on his wide felt hat made him seem impossibly tall, the cut of his scarlet doublet and the heavy cloak broadening his shoulders and giving him a truly imposing presence. Without moving a muscle, he was able to fill the room, towering over her, the gold lace which covered the costume sparkling in the glow of the lamp, right down to the rosettes which adorned his incongruously small shoes.

He was, in a word, magnificent. However, Antoinette could not ignore the aura of malevolence he carried with him. It was quite obvious that he had not emerged merely to dance at the ball.

"Why are you here?" she asked. "Why return now, after all this time? Everyone believes you are dead."

"Not everyone, surely? Were you not haunting these halls yourself in the last few months, pathetically calling out to me?" Erik enquired, tilting his head slightly.

Madame Giry stared at him, her fingers flexing at her side. She knew he was smiling and had his face not been covered by papier mache she would have struck him. "You were watching me," she said, stunned. "All that time, when I was worried about you, all alone down there... all that time you were watching me and you did not _once_ reply? Oh, you are an evil man, Erik!"

"Of course. I am the Phantom, am I not? What room have I for mercy, compassion or love? A monster has no need of such emotions."

"You cannot believe that. You cannot speak in such a way about yourself!" she cried. "For God's sake, what did I ever do to receive such treatment? I helped you, cared for you - "

"And I allowed myself to become weak because of it," Erik said. "I will not be weak again. I _cannot_." He turned away, bowing his head and sending the grotesque carnival parody of a face he wore into shadow. "I would never survive it."

Quickly, Madame Giry approached him, catching hold of his hand before he could withdraw it. "Then leave. Fly from here and begin again somewhere new, somewhere beyond this insanity. I will help you, come with you if you wish it, but please do not become entangled with the world out there again. If it nearly destroyed you before, what chance have you now?"

Hesitantly, he looked at her, his wondering eyes visible behind the mask. "You... you would do that for me?"

Though she had never even considered such a prospect before that moment, Antoinette nodded. "If that is what it will take to keep you safe from harm then I will do it. Contrary to what you may believe, Erik, you are not universally hated and reviled. There _is_ some compassion in the world. I will do this for you if you agree to give up Christine, to allow her to marry her vicomte and be happy."

The instant those words left her mouth it was obvious that she had said the wrong thing. Erik's shoulders stiffened, and he drew himself up to his full height, glaring down at her. "I might have known that your offer would have some conditions, Madame," he snapped. "Nothing in life is ever freely given. So, they are to be married then, Christine and the boy? He is to make an honest woman of his Jezebel."

She tried to grab for him as he whirled about and pulled open the dressing room door, but the material of his costume slid through her outstretched fingers like water. "Erik, _please_!" she called after him. "What are you going to do?"

The corridor was so dark that she could barely see him, but there was enough light to make out the gesture he made with the leather folder, obviously so important to him. He held it out at arm's length, and hissed,

"My life's work is complete - _Don Juan Triumphant_ is ready to be performed. They will soon discover that the Phantom has returned, and he has scores to settle."


	21. Little Giry Advises

**LITTLE GIRY ADVISES**

For a long moment after the Phantom's disappearance there was silence in the ballroom, before the paralysis which had overtaken everyone suddenly evaporated and they all began talking at once. Some expressed shock; others horror or indignation, but one thing became perfectly clear: despite the disaster of six months ago, hardly anyone had actually believed that the Opera Ghost was real, apparently taking the managers' assertion that Buquet's death and the destruction of the chandelier had been simply accidents to be the truth.

Meg pushed her way through the crowd, trying to reach her mother. Madame Giry hurried away, towards a side door which led into the main body of the theatre, and Meg could guess where she was going, but she was caught in the excited crush; before she could get close the Vicomte de Chagny had beaten her to it. They were speaking, and she strained to hear the words over the general din, reading their lips when the noise became too great.

"...I must speak with you!" That was Raoul, worry and confusion obvious on his face.

Madame Giry shook her head. "This is not the time, Monsieur, believe me. I cannot stop now, I have - "

"Please." He caught hold of her sleeve as she turned to go, pulling her back in desperation. "You know more about this 'Phantom' than anyone else. Madame, I am imploring you – tell me who he is!"

Meg ducked under the outstretched arm of a Pierrot, squeezed herself between two rotund sultans and apologised when she stepped on Madame de Pompadour's foot. Ahead, the vicomte was following her mother from the room; she looked around, craning her neck and trying to spot Christine in the melee, but there was no sign of her friend. Carlotta was once again surrounded by an admiring throng, to whom she was doubtless embellishing her spiteful tales, and on the staircase she could just see Monsieur Andre sitting with the leather satchel containing the Phantom's opera across his knees. Firmin was patting his shoulder and offering him a drink from his hip flask. There was nothing to be gained by remaining, and so Meg dashed into the darkness after Raoul.

Drawn by their voices, she found them in a little room backstage, usually the province of the scene-shifters during their breaks. Lamplight bled through the gap between the door and its frame, and Meg crept closer, not wishing to announce her presence.

"...in a cage," her mother was saying, "I have no idea how he came to be there, or for how long he was kept prisoner by those gypsies, but they locked him up and forced him to perform for the thousands who descended upon the fairs. He is a genius, a magician, and architect and a musician of great skill and ability, and yet they displayed him alongside other freaks of nature: men and women, even children deformed through no fault of their own. I saw two poor boys joined at the head, pointed at and jeered by lads their own age, and through it all they tightly held each other's hand, their faces so sad." Madame Giry paused. "Do you think it right to find amusement in those who cannot help themselves, Monsieur?"

"No, Madame, I do not. But this man of whom you speak... whatever his talents, surely nature has made him a monster? Why else would he have done what he has?" Raoul asked.

"If he is a monster, and I do not believe that, then it is the world which is responsible. I know little enough of his life before we met, but I am aware that he has been shown nothing but anger and hatred by the people around him, and all because of his face. How can a child be expected to understand right from wrong if he is not taught? How can someone love another if they have no idea what love even is?"

There was a silence, and Meg held her breath. Eventually, the vicomte said, "Madame Giry, I only wish to protect Christine. If this man is a threat to her, then what can I do?"

"Persuade her to leave, for good this time. It may be the only way." The ballet mistress sighed. "It may be the only way to protect _both_ of them."

* * *

><p>The door opened, and Meg quickly scuttled to one side, barely avoiding her mother as she emerged, a lantern in her hand. She looked both ways along the corridor, frowning, and strode off, her heels clacking on the floorboards for some time after she had vanished from sight. Meg let out the breath she had been holding.<p>

"Do you often eavesdrop, Mademoiselle?" a voice asked, and she jumped, spinning around to see Raoul standing behind her. So engrossed had she been in keeping herself hidden from Antoinette that she had not even heard him leaving the room. One hand on her thumping heart, she said,

"Sometimes it is the only way to learn the truth, Monsieur. If no one will talk to you, it is best to keep your eyes and ears open."

The vicomte glanced up the passage in the direction Madame Giry had taken. "Why does she help him? Does he have some hold over her as well as Christine?"

"He saved her life," Meg replied. "Relationships forged in adversity are often the strongest, I believe."

"And what experience do you have of such things, Mademoiselle Giry?" Raoul enquired, his lips quirking in amusement.

She rounded on him, and he took a step back in surprise. "I read, I observe. You may think me young, but I have seen much of human life within these walls. Love, joy, fear, hope, pity, anger... my father died when I was just five years old, and I have spent almost all my time since then in this theatre with my mother, watching people come and go and seeing them in their good times and bad. Losing a parent makes you grow up quickly, Monsieur le Vicomte." A sudden thought of Christine stilled her anger, and she added quietly, "And it can also make you lose yourself in dreams. For some it is easier than living in the real world and dealing with the pain."

"What are we to do, Meg?" All trace of humour had flown from the vicomte's face at the reference to Christine and the worry returned, making him look older. "How are we to save her from this man?"

Meg was startled by his use of her given name; she had not even realised that he knew it. "Surely the question should really be, does she wish to _be_ saved?"

"Why would she not? He has threatened her, bewitched her – God damn it, he almost killed her!" he exclaimed.

"But does she see it that way? If she really were so frightened of him, would she have come back here tonight? Why not fly with you and forget he ever existed?"

Raoul's eyebrows drew sharply together, and he regarded Meg suspiciously in the dim light. "She came because I asked her to; I thought it would do her good to enjoy herself instead of moping about the house. She has become far too pale and thin lately. What are you suggesting?"

Meg remembered Christine the night after the gala, the way she spoke about her 'Angel of Music'. Yes, she had admitted to feeling fear, but Meg recalled the elation in her voice and how changed she seemed, no longer the shy, clumsy chorus girl but a leading lady. The 'angel' had transformed her, given her the confidence that she had lacked ever since she came to the Opera: confidence in herself. Meg did not see that in her friend now; Christine was a shadow of her former self. "There is a very thin line between love and hate, is there not?" she said.

"Surely you don't mean she actually feels something for that... that creature?" Raoul asked in a hushed voice, eyes widening in horror at the prospect. "After all that he has done... could _you_ care for such a man?"

Meg shrugged. "I'm not Christine. It's what she believes that matters."

* * *

><p>Raoul left shortly after their exchange, looking more bewildered than ever and muttering under his breath.<p>

Knowing that her mother would be gone for some time, Meg hung around backstage, avoiding the odd couple or two who had sneaked away from the wreckage of the party and taken advantage of the near-deserted darkness of the theatre. After practising a few movements and wishing she had thought to fetch her point shoes from the ballet rats' dressing room, she found herself wandering out into the auditorium and standing alone on the stage.

Moonlight poured through the great skylight in the roof, its beams falling across the red velvet seats like bars upon a window. Beneath it hung the new chandelier, still shrouded in its tarpaulin; the Phantom's appearance had prevented the triumphant unveiling. Meg sat on the edge of the stage for a while, enjoying the silence and taking in the vast room and the immaculate repairs which had been made. It would be so easy to believe that the events of that night in June had never happened.

At length, she reluctantly decided that it was time to go home. It must be after two in the morning by now, and several years' experience told her that if her mother was with OG there was no telling when she would return. Though Meg had her suspicions as to the location of his home, she had no idea how to get there and even had she known, Antoinette would be livid if she arrived unannounced upon his doorstep. She made her way through the gloomy corridors towards the stage door, intending to wake Pierre the night watchman, who would doubtless be snoring in his booth by now, to let her out of the building.

As she passed Christine's dressing room, however, she stopped, for the door stood ajar and she could hear the faint sound of someone weeping within. Hastily, Meg pushed the door fully open and there, in a pink and blue heap before the mirror was Christine herself, her face hidden by her hands and her shoulders heaving with each stifled sob. She looked somewhat the worse for wear, dust and cobwebs in her dark curls and her dress torn and dirty. Wondering where she could have been, Meg knelt beside her, taking Christine's hands in hers and squeezing them tightly.

"Christine... _Christine_... whatever is the matter?" she asked gently.

Two tear-filled brown eyes were raised to meet hers. Christine tried to smile, but her face crumpled and she all but collapsed into Meg's embrace. Little Giry held her without comment, rubbing Christine's back in a comforting manner as her mother had always done when she was upset and murmuring reassurances.

"Oh, Meg, I've made such a mess of everything," Christine said at last, wiping ineffectually at her eyes. Meg passed her a handkerchief and she dabbed at the make-up that had run in black rivulets down her hollow cheeks. "I've lost him. I think I've lost my angel forever."

Meg opened her mouth to reply, but shut it again when she realised there was a pair of eyes peering at them through the gap where the mirror hadn't completely shut behind her friend; curious, mismatched eyes that were somehow visible despite the shadows which shrouded their owner. He didn't move, or speak, but she had felt his presence since her childhood and she recognised it now. A familiar cry, often started by her and taken up by the other petit rats, danced upon her lips and she mouthed the words:

_He's here, the Phantom of the Opera_...

"Tell me what happened," she said to Christine, deliberately deflecting her attention from the man watching them. "Tell me everything, and then maybe we can work a way out of this tangle."

Christine sniffed. "I'm sorry, Meg. I wish I'd told you about it before, but he wouldn't let me. I didn't want to make him angry - "

"That doesn't matter," Meg assured her. "Now, start at the beginning..."

As her friend began her tale, she glanced at the mirror again. This time, there was a faint light coming from behind the glass and she could see him, his white mask glowing ethereally in the surrounding darkness. He met her gaze for a long moment with that peculiar, almost hypnotic one of his own and then turned away, the gap closing soundlessly behind him.

Meg had the strangest feeling that she had somehow gained the Phantom's approval.


	22. The Choices of Christine

**Author's Note:**

Regarding this instalment, I'd just like to say that I'm not a Raoul-basher by any means. I think he genuinely loves Christine and wants to help her, but he is impulsive, sometimes thoughtless and a little blinkered. Given everything he has to go through with her, could anyone blame him for losing his rag occasionally?

Slightly shorter chapter this time, and no Erik again I'm afraid.

Thank you once again to all those who have reviewed.

* * *

><p><strong>THE CHOICES OF CHRISTINE<strong>

"I won't do it."

Raoul stared at Christine as she bound up his sprained wrist, apparently so shocked by her words that he completely forgot to flinch and yelp when she pulled the bandage too tight. "You cannot be serious. Christine, without you the whole plan will fail!"

"Let it." She tied off the dressing and got to her feet. Still inwardly quivering with anger over what had happened at the cemetery, she distractedly paced the room. "I'm sorry, Raoul, but I want no part of this. I betrayed Erik once; I won't do it again."

"Christine!" He jumped up and tried to grab hold of her arm with his injured hand; he thought better of it just in time, and tucked it protectively into his waistcoat instead. Under other circumstances, she might have laughed at his unconscious imitation of Napoleon, but not now. "Christine, _please_. We have to be rid of this man, for all our sakes. This is the only way to do it."

"And by being rid of him you really mean by bringing about his death."

"It is the only way," Raoul insisted. "There can be no compromise here: it is either him or us. You heard him in the graveyard – he declared war. This is no time for weakness."

"I will not be a party to murder, Raoul!" Christine cried. "He was my teacher, my ang – my companion." They both noticed the slip. "Why can you show no mercy?"

His face was hard, set in determination. For a brief moment, she didn't recognise her fiancé, her childhood friend. Another man altogether, a ruthless man, stood in his place. She turned away as he asked quietly, "Did your 'angel' show mercy to Joseph Buquet?"

Christine closed her eyes, trying to crush in her mind the memory of the fly chief's body plummeting towards the stage before it was brought up short with a sickening crack of bones breaking. She pushed away the image which rose unbidden of Erik up there on the catwalks, watching as Buquet fell. With more conviction than she felt, she declared, "You have no proof that Erik killed Buquet. There is no proof that _anyone_ killed him – the verdict of the jury was 'death by misadventure'!"

"Six months ago you felt differently – back then you were practically begging me to save you from this monster which stalked your footsteps, to take you away before he snapped _your_ neck too!" Now Raoul did catch hold of her sleeve, awkwardly pulling her round to face him. There was confusion in his blue eyes as they searched her face. "Christine, what has changed? What do you really feel for that man?"

"I would not willingly stand by and watch while anyone was lured into a trap," she said, avoiding the question. "How can you expect me to do this, Raoul?"

"Because you have no choice: it has to be done. This is the only way you can ever be free of him. Even if he is not guilty of murder, which I very much doubt, he is a fraudster and an extortionist, not to mention a maniac who attacked me - "

Christine threw up her hands in frustration, trying desperately not to scream aloud. "You were threatening him with a loaded pistol! He was defending himself!"

"And you are defending _him_!" Raoul countered hotly. "He could have killed _me_ – would you still be so loyal to him then?"

"Now you are being ridiculous." The words were out of her mouth before she even realised, and their effect was immediate.

He froze, and a dark look crossed his usually amiable features. After a moment, he drew himself up and fixed her with a steely gaze. Christine almost started at the sight; she had never before seen him look quite so... so... grown up. "I am only doing this for you," he said, evidently from the slight wobble in his voice trying his best to remain calm, "even if you cannot see it at present. I had hoped that you would assist me – us – in this matter, as it concerns your safety as well as that of the Opera, but even without your help the plan will go ahead. I _will_ rid this theatre of the Phantom's influence, you can be sure of that!" Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Christine stared as the dress which hung there swung back and forth before finally falling to the floor in a crumpled heap of satin and lace. She furiously blinked back the tears that sprang to her eyes and sat down heavily before her dressing table in a flurry of skirts. How could she have expected him to understand? Like many men, Raoul saw everything in black and white; there was no room for any shade of grey. He had found a solution to their problem, and there would be no turning him from his course once he was set upon it. For Christine, things were not so simple; feelings, emotions, were not so cut and dried.

"You have to decide exactly what you want," Meg had told her, "No one else can make the choice; no one but you knows what is in your heart."

Wise words, but Christine was not sure she _did_ know. She felt more than ever as though she was caught in the middle of a cat's cradle, suspended there unable to move, every attempt to free herself tangling her all the tighter in its threads. Did that little voice in the back of her mind belong to her head or her heart? If her heart told her she was making the right decision but her head disagreed, which should she believe?

There was only one thing to do. The voices and opinions of others were constantly flung back and forth, preventing her from thinking for herself. If she were to make any kind of decision, it would have to be on her terms alone. Crossing to the door, she turned the key in the lock and leaned against the panelling for a moment, her head resting on the wood. Then, resolutely, she picked up her cloak from the sofa and draped it over the great mirror on the wall so that it would obscure the vision of anyone behind the glass. This done, she resumed her seat at the dressing table and fixed her reflection with a firm gaze.

What did she_ really_ want? A life of safety and security with Raoul, or the intoxicating darkness of the music of the night..?

By the time she left this room, she hoped that she would know.


	23. No Solace in the Bottom of a Glass

**Author's Note:**

Runs concurrently with the previous chapter; while Christine soul-searches, Erik angsts.

* * *

><p><strong>NO SOLACE IN THE BOTTOM OF A GLASS<strong>

The brandy stung and burned his throat; the pain was a comfort but the liquor tasted of ashes.

Emptying the glass and realising there was nothing left in the decanter, Erik threw it aside, hunching deeper into his chair. The grate before him was bare, and he had no inclination to start a fire. Let him sit and shiver in the cold and damp; it was no more than he deserved, after all. If the world was to be believed, should he grow desperate he had only to call upon the eternal flames of Hell to warm him.

Did those who freely bandied about the terms of 'demon' and 'devil' ever imagine the effect their words could have upon the object of their ire? All his life he had been jeered and snarled at, had such epithets flung at him no matter what he did. Those who saw his face screamed and crossed themselves for protection; if they heard him sing then he must be equally cursed, for who but the Devil would place a heavenly voice within the rotting carcass of one such as he? For so long he had not even been granted the distinction of a name, had existed with merely a description... _beast_, _freak_, _abomination_, _fiend_, _ghoul_, _wraith_, _djin_, _monster_, _gargoyle_, _Living Corpse_, _spawn of Satan_... They had tried to remove every vestige of humanity from him, and they had almost succeeded.

"_Cover your face in my presence you revolting animal! How _dare_ you look at me in that way_?"

Erik heard his mother's voice, loud and commanding despite the passage of time. In a moment he was back in the salon, a room into which he was rarely allowed, gawping anew at the finery of the decorations, tracing the elaborate pattern and weave of the expensive carpet beneath his feet and mesmerised by the bright colours. There she was, always just out of his reach, as though keeping an expanse of floorboards between them would somehow protect her from the threat he represented. Perhaps she thought that if she came too close she might become tainted by his ugliness; she was certainly the most beautiful thing Erik had ever seen. Beyond her stood his father, a pained expression on his weak, handsome face, watching uncomfortably but doing nothing to intervene. Her pale blue eyes bored into him, her face cold and angry as he stood awaiting her wrath over his latest transgression. Never had he seen her smile at him, or throw one affectionate glance in his direction. From the moment she pushed him away when he was barely two hours old, she did her best to make it clear to him that it was his fault he had ever been born. He had ruined her life, and she would never stop blaming him, just as, despite her cruelty, he would never stop trying to love her. Though she hated him, he would have given anything for just one touch.

"_Who would ever love a creature like you_?"

Her voice rang clear as a bell and he clapped his hands over his ears, trying to shut her out. It was useless; the memories would not be stemmed now, not after all these years. They returned to him in his weakest moments, taunting him, piercing his flesh with their red-hot pitchforks. No torture can exceed that which a man makes for himself within his own mind. Tell a child enough times that he is a monster and soon he will begin to believe it. The monster of imagination will become the monster of reality. His mother had not given birth to a demon, but she had done her very best to create one just the same.

Now it was his own words which returned to him, words spoken mere hours ago. "_Do I really frighten you so much_?" It had been a timid question, one to which he feared the answer, but he was compelled to ask. She had not even needed to speak; one look was enough to tell him how she felt.

Oh, Christine. There, in his mind's eye, he could see her nodding, her face white and her lip trembling. She clasped her hands tightly to her breast, around the little silver cross which had been her mother's, as though seeking its protection, and he felt as though a dagger had been plunged into his heart. She was terrified of him! All he had wanted was to be with her, to hear her beautiful voice soar for him and him alone. How wonderful it would feel to have her caress his ruin of a face and tell him that it did not matter, that appearances were not important! What bliss it would be to find that she loved him, that she wanted him just as much as he did her. But that would never happen now, he could see it in her eyes. He had allowed the dark side, the side of him formed by pain and rejection, to take the upper hand and now he had scared her away. The blackness deep within had driven from him the one person he thought might understand and destroyed any chance of happiness he might have had.

"_I want to be free_... _I want to be_ free..."

Her words, over and over, louder and louder, became a cacophony in his head. With a cry, Erik struck out, knocking the brandy glass to the floor where it hit the flagstones of the fireplace and shattered. Shards flew up and embedded themselves in his skin but he paid them no heed. What did they matter now, more scars on this loathsome hide? He sank down upon the rug before the cold hearth, resting his head against the cushions of his chair, his breath shuddering in his chest. He was doomed to be alone, his punishment for being different.

Another voice rose unbidden from the back of his mind. With a start, he realised it was Antoinette, and she was looking at him, not with pity, but with compassion, as she dressed the injuries he had sustained in disposing of her attackers. He recalled that he had asked her, when she did not flinch or turn away, how she could stand to look upon a face from which so many others had retreated in horror and revulsion. Her answer, as always, had been blunt and completely honest:

"_No one should be punished for being that which God has seen fit to make them. Your face is not your fault_."

She had touched him then, voluntarily, brushing the back of her hand across his forehead to check that he was not feverish from his wounds. To his astonishment, she straightened the blankets, tucking him in as though her were her child, something his own mother had never dared to do. Erik had thought that he was indeed delirious, and not expected to see her again, but the next day when he awoke there she was, sitting with him and tending to him, as though he were someone worth saving and not a deformed creature she met in the darkness, who had killed two men before her eyes.

He groaned, the sound becoming a muffled wail which finally fell to heavy, hoarse sobs. After all that she had done for him, he had pushed Antoinette away too. Images of their last meeting, at the ball, flashed before his closed eyes and he curled into himself all the tighter in an attempt to be rid of them. How he had treated her! He had mocked and cruelly rejected the only person who had ever actually cared what became of him. Oh, blind, foolish Erik! Truly he was a beast, no better than the dog which bites the hand that feeds it.

Antoinette's face became Christine's. She was flushed, smiling, elated after a successful lesson. It had been so long since he had seen her so; worry and fear were etched into her features now, and it was all because of him. How he longed to see her smile again, to see her look upon him as she once did, when he was her angel!

"..._there is no place in that life for Erik_?" he heard himself ask, back in the snow of the graveyard. She considered before she answered him, and he thought he might die on the spot from the rejection. Eventually, she said quietly,

"_I did not say that. All I ask is the right to choose_."

The right to choose. Erik had been denied that right for as long as he could remember. He had not chosen to flee the only home he had known; travel was thrust upon him when he had no other option. Even the decision to hide and ultimately make his home beneath the Opera had been born of necessity, of desperation after his escape from the gypsy carnival, the police at his heels. Had he been permitted to choose his life would have been a far cry from the misery in which he constantly dwelt.

"_You are a cruel man, Erik_."

He had been called cruel many times. It meant little to him; it was just another word, another insult thrown in his direction. But now... now he stopped to consider, gazing into the darkness of the empty fireplace before him. For so long he had railed against his own circumstances, against the harshness of the world and the prison in which he found himself, a prison ultimately of his own making. He was trapped, unable to break free because he could see no alternative, no life beyond his invisible bars. As he fought against them, was it truly fair to wish that life for another?

Was it not cruelty to deny Christine that which he had never been allowed himself?


	24. Notes III

**NOTES III**

Christine had never actually been inside Box Five before.

She had looked up at it many times. In the beginning it was from a mixture of curiosity and trepidation whenever one of the ballet rats took up the chorus of 'He's here – the Phantom!'; more lately she had glanced in its direction in search of Erik, in the hope that he might be watching and show his approval of her performance. Now that she was here, she could understand his insistence that the box be left for his use alone – it commanded by far the best view of the stage and the auditorium as a whole, and there were plenty of deep shadows in which to hide. In fact, it was sumptuous and the opulence nearly took her breath away as she moved further inside, running a hand over the plush velvet of the seats and the heavy, draping curtains, her feet sinking into the thick, luxurious pile of the carpet. The brilliant, almost garish decoration with which the building was filled was as prevalent here as in the grand public rooms; little details caught her eye, carved fruit and musical instruments wound into the woodwork. She could see more clearly than ever the dramatic statues which adorned the proscenium and gave a slight shudder when she realised how sinister they appeared in the dim glow of the gas lamps. Beautiful when viewed from below and caught by the limelight, now they glared and leered at her and she found she had to look away.

Slowly, she made her way towards the single chair which stood at the front of the box, a chair which could only have been placed there for one person. It was a large chair, almost a throne with its blood red cushions and gilded legs. Christine imagined him sitting there alone, shrouded in darkness, his gaze fixed on the stage. Perhaps he steepled his fingers, his eyes gleaming as he contemplated the likely success or failure of the production before him. She could not help wondering how long he had been observing her inept and graceless attempts to be a ballerina before he came to her that night as her Angel. Colouring slightly with embarrassment at the memory, she hoped that he had not seen her trip and fall when they were rehearsing _Romeo and Juliet_; she became entangled with Meg and the whole ballet chorus had gone down like a row of dominoes. Madame had _not_ been pleased that day, and Christine had nearly given up her theatrical career on the spot.

The envelope she carried crackled in her hand and she shook her head. All that had been some time ago, and the present was what mattered now. Rounding the chair and trying not to feel as though she might topple out of the box, she leant to lay the letter on its seat and was surprised to find one already there. Frowning, she picked it up, putting down her own in its place, and looked at it; the stationery was the kind she had seen before, ivory with a black border almost like that used after a death, and on the front was written 'Antoinette' in Erik's large, looping hand.

A noise came from below and she jumped. Ducking carefully into the shadow cast by the curtains, she peered over the edge into the auditorium; a couple of the stage hands were pulling boxes from a trolley and talking loudly, discussing, as she realised a moment later, the night of the masquerade. Reluctant to listen to their gossip, Christine tucked the letter away in her bodice and slipped quietly into the passage, closing the door of the Phantom's box behind her.

* * *

><p>It was becoming so late that after three knocks she assumed that Madame Giry had gone home and was turning away when the door abruptly opened and the ballet mistress stood on the threshold. She looked surprised at the identity of her visitor, and, Christine thought, a little disappointed. Both emotions were quickly pushed aside, however, and she was ushered into the little office that was Madame Giry's province when not on the stage or in the rehearsal rooms. It was obvious to both of them who Madame had really been expecting.<p>

"I'm sorry, my dear," she said in answer to Christine's unspoken question, and stepped back to allow her into the room. "I thought that you might be... might be someone else. It doesn't matter now."

"I don't think that particular someone would use the door," Christine replied, and Madame smiled slightly.

"That is true." She glanced at the far wall, and Christine could just see the narrow section of panelling that was a little lighter in colour than the rest. If she looked closer, she felt sure that she would be able to find the concealed hinges which allowed the wall-covering to swing open much like the mirror in her dressing room. "The first time he came to me here, I was taken by surprise and thought that he had appeared out of thin air. He always delighted in wrong-footing me." A sharp black gaze was turned in Christine's direction. "Have you seen him?"

Christine said nothing, instead holding out the envelope she had found in Box Five.

With a puzzled expression, Madame took the note. She opened it and stared at the contents for a long moment, before, much to Christine's shock and astonishment, she burst into tears. Quickly the young singer pulled out a handkerchief and offered it; Madame Giry took the square of cambric and lace gratefully and dabbing at her eyes passed Christine the letter. On the page, in that familiar bold handwriting, were just two words:

_Thank you_.

"He has never said it before," the ballet mistress said hoarsely. "All these years, after everything I've done for him, he never thanked me. I suppose he never thought he needed to, or that I... I just... I just don't - " Her voice cracked and she began to cry again. Christine did her best to offer comfort, drawing up a chair and running off to fetch a cup of tea; she had never seen Madame so vulnerable and it unnerved her.

Eventually, the ballet mistress regained some of her composure. She took a sip of the tea, heavily sweetened with three spoonfuls of sugar, and glanced at Christine who was hovering at her shoulder in concern. "What has happened?" she asked. "This sudden change in Erik... something must be responsible for it. Is it your doing, Christine?"

Indirectly, Christine supposed, it might be. When she said those words to Erik in anger, threatened to cut him out of her life, she had not thought that they would have any effect upon him. He had spared Raoul, it was true, but the venomous cry hurled in their direction as they left could still send a shiver down her spine. Madame Giry was regarding her curiously, and so she briefly explained what had taken place between them beside her father's grave.

"So Erik let him live." Madame said. "I hope the vicomte knows how lucky he is."

"He thinks of nothing but capturing the Phantom," Christine responded bitterly. "No matter what I do I cannot dissuade him from this ridiculous scheme. Even my refusing to perform makes no difference."

"Refusing to... You would do that for him? Stand up to them all, risk your career?" The ballet mistress stood, taking Christine's hands in her own and squeezing them. Her dark eyes searched her former pupil's face. "You would do that for Erik? Truly?"

"I cannot let them do this to him. Whatever has happened, whatever he has or hasn't done, he does not deserve to be humiliated in such a way."

"The opera. _Don Juan Triumphant_." Madame Giry's face was haunted, paler than ever against her stark black dress as a kind of horrified realisation dawned upon her. "A desecration of his life's work... It would break him forever."

Such a scenario had not occurred to Christine. She remembered finding the manuscript on the piano, opening it and being astounded and discomfited by the passion she discovered within the pages. Erik had come up behind her, startling her from the reverie into which she had sunk, and carefully removed the score from her hands, replacing it almost lovingly on the music stand. She could clearly see his long white fingers as they gently stroked the leather binding.

"_My magnum opus, Christine_," he had said. "_My_ Don Juan. _He burns, but one day you shall hear him. One day_ everyone _will hear him. He will stand as a fitting testament to my worthless life_."

Erik had poured his heart and soul into that opera. Doubtless the six month absence of the Phantom had been spent finishing that work which had been his major creative outlet for so long, a focus for him in his loneliness and solitude. And now that it was done, it was to be used against him. His masterpiece was to be his downfall!

"Madame Giry, what can we do?" Christine asked, grasping the ballet mistress's hands tightly. "Raoul and the others... they won't be content with capturing the Phantom. They mean to kill him!"

"Oh, Mon Dieu! We must warn him!" Madame Giry paced the office, obviously thinking desperately. Christine watched her, twisting the chain around her neck. "He has sealed all the entrances to the tunnels but the mirror in your room. Do you know how to open it?"

Christine shook her head. "I could never work the pivot. But I daren't try to reach him that way – Raoul might see and he is so angry I would not want to lead him below. I'm afraid of what he might do." _Or rather, what Erik might to do _him_ if he is provoked once more_, she added silently.

"You must speak with him, Christine, tell him that he has to leave the Opera, to leave Paris, and as quickly as possible. Flight is his only chance of survival; if the police become involved there will be no reprieve for him, no mercy." Madame crossed quickly to her desk and took up a pen, pulling a sheet of paper towards her as she spoke. "I will leave him a note in Box Five and hope that he finds it in time."

Stepping forward, Christine stayed her hand as she began to write. "There's no need for that, Madame. I left him a note half an hour ago, asking him to meet me on the roof."


	25. Dreams Are More Precious

**Author's Note:**

Another chapter title from Enya, this time from her album _And Winter Came._

* * *

><p><strong>DREAMS ARE MORE PRECIOUS<strong>

The snow had almost stopped, but it was still bitingly cold on the roof.

Christine stood hugging herself tightly beneath her cloak and remembering the almost balmy weather that night in June. Freezing snowflakes crackled beneath her feet as she turned, glancing up at the huge statue of Apollo looming above her and wondering where Erik had been hiding while she made her frightened, foolish appeal to Raoul. He knew so well how to blend completely with the shadows, concealing himself in their embrace; even had she been looking she knew that she would never have found him.

In the distance, first one clock chimed the hour, then another and another until every church and public building had taken up the refrain. There was movement somewhere beyond Apollo; though she saw nothing, she knew he was there. His presence was almost a living thing, reaching out to touch her.

"Angel or father, friend or Phantom... who is it there staring?" she called softly, adding when he did not reply, "Does that gaze I feel upon me belong to my Angel of Music or the Opera Ghost?"

A long moment passed before his voice floated towards her on the icy breeze. "Are they not one and the same?"

"Not to me. It is my friend I wish to see, the friend who listened to my hopes and fears, who promised to protect me and sang me to sleep when my grief became too much to bear. I hope that friend is still there, somewhere; I wish so much to speak with him once more."

"He is here." The light from the surrounding buildings and the streetlamps below them revealed his silhouette against the clearing sky. "But - forgive me - has not Little Lotte forsaken her angel?"

Christine felt herself colour slightly at the reminder of that particular conversation. She could still see the hurt and anger in his eyes when she spoke of the end of the story. "I am no longer Little Lotte. Sometimes I wonder whether I ever was."

"You wish to give up your dreams?" Erik had moved a little closer, and she could see him more clearly. Though he was wrapped in his cloak, his hat tilted over his face at the familiar angle that would have looked rakish had she not known what it was designed to hide, he seemed smaller somehow, less intimidating. He still towered over her, but she did not feel that instinctive need to back away. The air about him did not crackle with its usual danger and she relaxed a fraction – the Phantom was absent.

"Some would say that it was time I put away childish things," she replied.

"There is nothing wrong in dreaming, Christine. Let no one tell you otherwise." He sounded so incredibly fierce, his wonderful voice quivering with emotion. Somehow, he had come up beside her without her noticing, his tread as silent as a cat, and now stood looking over the rooftops beyond them, towards the Palais-Royal and Notre Dame. She was presented with his good side, and felt a pang of regret as she was given a glimpse of what he could have been, had he not suffered from the cruelty of nature's touch. "When you have nothing else to live for, when hope is almost completely exhausted, dreaming can keep you alive."

"But surely it is possible to dream too much? Eventually we all have to live in the real world."

Erik's lip curled slightly, and his tone was contemptous. "There is little in the real world which appeals, I find."

A question suddenly sprang onto her tongue, one she had never even considered asking before, and would probably not have dared. "Is that how it began, then, the legend of the Phantom? Was it your own escape from reality?"

He was silent for some time, and Christine found herself holding her breath. Had she angered him? No... There was no stiffening of his spine, no raising of his head in that regal, assured fashion. Instead, much to her surprise, he leaned forwards, resting his hands on the ledge in front of them, his long fingers whiter than ever in the moonlight. His cufflinks and the ring he wore on the little finger of his right hand gleamed like miniature stars. "Perhaps..." he said quietly. "I had never really considered it that way, but yes... perhaps it was. More than just a mask behind which to hide." A sigh escaped him. "Why did you ask me here, Christine? This place holds no fond memories for me."

"I could think of nowhere else that we would not be overheard." She winced inwardly at her tactlessness. A gust of cold air stirred their cloaks and she moved away from the edge of the roof, turning her chilled face from the wind's bite.

"After our earlier encounter I had not thought that you would wish to see me. You made your feelings perfectly clear, did you not?"

"I was angry, angry with you _and_ Raoul. It is no comfort to me to find myself fought over like a possession," she said. "But, I thank you for not hurting him further. I know well that you could have done, with such provocation."

Erik bowed slightly, his face in shadow.

"And..." Christine continued, pacing to focus her thoughts. She was glad that she could not read his expression, for meeting his gaze would just make the words she had been practising all the harder to say. "Equally, I cannot allow _him_ to harm _you_. It has taken me a long time to admit to myself, but I need you, my maestro. I know now that am not fit to sit in a gilded cage, singing only when permitted, like a nightingale kept for a lady's amusement. It is not enough for me. My head was filled with dreams, but they were dreams I didn't and still probably don't fully understand. I thought that I wanted safety and comfort, but I was wrong; there was always something missing, as though a little part of me had died. I tried so hard, but I couldn't find it, and then at last I realised what it was." She stopped and turned to face him once more, to find him still standing by the ledge, silently regarding her. "Christine needs her Erik. Does Erik need Christine?"

He said nothing, and her heart hammered so loudly that she was sure he must be able to hear it. Was this part of her punishment for forsaking him, to remain in a state of anguished anticipation? She half expected him to leave her there, waiting, and vanish below, never to give her an answer.

At length, he did speak, and his voice was low and thick. "Erik has always needed Christine."

Relief flooded through her, and she thought that she might collapse as her legs wobbled. She reached out for support but could find none; in a moment there was a strong hand under her elbow, keeping her from falling. Glancing up, she found that his masked face was mere inches from hers, those intense mismatched eyes clear despite the darkness. Once, even earlier today, she would have pulled away in fear and confusion, but not now. Something had changed in both of them, back there in the graveyard. Christine realised that she had grown up, and Erik? Perhaps he had done the same. There was a long moment during which neither dared to move, and then, to her disappointment, he was moving away, fingers deftly working at the ties of his cloak. Before she could speak he was transferring the heavy fabric from his shoulders to hers, pulling the collar up around her throat.

"You're shivering," he explained, anticipating her question. "We must not neglect your voice; you will need to be at your best to sing Aminta."

"Erik, I'm not going to sing Aminta," Christine said. "I can't; I've refused to have anything to do with it."

Shock and hurt flared in his eyes. "Not sing..." His hands flew from her and he took three stumbling steps back as though she had punched him in the stomach. He stood there, hunched, his face turned away, and said, "I know... I know that I cannot force you. I have no right to deny you a choice; I see that now. But, Christine... it was your voice in my head as I wrote that music. You consumed me, inspired me, drove me onwards. I have thought of nothing these last, long months but seeing you upon that stage, finally lifting your voice in _my_ song..." His voice cracked slightly. "Please do not deny me that one last comfort."

"No... Erik, you misunderstand me!" She reached out and caught hold of his hand. He flinched, as though her touch had burned him, but he did not withdraw his fingers. "There is a plot, hatched by Raoul and the managers. They mean to capture you during the performance – the theatre will be full of armed men, ready to shoot you down. If I do not sing, the opera cannot go ahead!"

Erik shook his head, not looking at her. He was trembling, though whether it was from the cold or emotion Christine could not tell. "No, no, no, Christine, you _must_ sing. This will be my only chance to have my work performed, to hear my orchestrations beyond the confines of my own mind. And your voice... Paris must hear your voice once more!"

"Erik." Christine tightened her hold on his hand desperately, trying to pull him round to face her. "Erik, you must listen to me. If _Don Juan_ opens, they will kill you. They have been pushed too far and they are determined to be rid of the Phantom. You will be shown no mercy!"

"Fitting for a creature who has shown none to others, no doubt."

She gasped at the words, and that mental image of him crouched in the rafters, watching Buquet fall, sprang to her mind's eye once more. "Erik," she said quietly, "Please tell me the truth. Did you kill Joseph Buquet?"

"Not Buquet, no." He laughed harshly. "Ironically, he was trying to escape me when he fell from the catwalk. He was strangled by my lasso; it caught on the way down and broke his neck more efficiently that I could have done, even with my years of practise."

Christine felt suddenly cold, despite the heavy cloak around her shoulders. She forced herself not to pull away. "You attacked him."

"He would have done the same to me, given the chance. My side still bears the scar inflicted by his knife some years ago. I refused to bow to his demands of blackmail and his filthy mouth needed to be shut – sooner or later one of you girls would have been hurt by him."

"Knife..." She blinked, events fitting into their correct place in her head. Madame Giry's story, the roughs and the masked man who rescued her... she thought of Buquet's greedy little eyes and leering grin as he hung around outside the dancers' dressing room, how he flattered and fawned upon the silliest of the girls... "It was _him_. He tried to - "

"Defile Antoinette, yes." Erik glanced at her in surprise. "She told you?" She could only nod, dumbly, but he did not seem angered by the ballet mistress's transgression; he spoke of the incident in a matter-of-fact tone. "He was lucky not to join his friends at the bottom of the Seine that night. That was precisely what he had planned for me, until he saw the demon he was facing. Do you still believe I deserve mercy, Christine? I have been the Angel of Death more than once."

She drew his cloak around her, fingers grasping the thick fabric. It was strange how vulnerable he appeared without it in the half-light. He just stood watching her, his visible features set in resignation as though he was convinced that at any moment she would run from him. "I cannot judge you," she said. "I know very little of your life but I am aware that it has been a hard, unfair one. You may have done wrong, but in this case at least I believe it was for the right reasons."

"Ah, Christine." A smile touched his face as he looked up into the night sky. "So naive still."

"You will not push me away now, so do not try," Christine told him, the snap in her voice startling her as much as it did him. "If you stay here, and the performance goes ahead, you will die. Raoul is hell-bent on his plan and Andre and Firmin are encouraging him; he will not listen to me. The only way for you to be safe is to leave Paris, go far away from here."

"Madame Giry has already made such a suggestion, and my answer is the same as I gave to her: no. I will not be run out of my opera house like a rat in a sewer, and in any case I cannot leave until I have seen the culmination of my life's work."

She almost stamped her foot in frustration. Why could he not accept what she was telling him? "Erik, they mean to use that work against you. _Don Juan_ is to be the end of the Opera Ghost, once and for all."

"Even so, I will not go." Erik's smile became sad, and he lifted the hand she did not hold, brushing his fingers within a hair's breadth of her cheek, to tuck a wayward curl beneath her hood. "For the Phantom to disappear and you to announce your withdrawal will make them suspicious; they might get the idea into their heads to take the theatre apart in search of me. Everything must be exactly as I have commanded, and they must believe that they have your support. They already suspect you because of your involvement with me, and I will not have you put in danger on my account."

"If I sing..." Christine looked up, meeting his gaze. "Will you promise me that you will remain hidden? There must be no appearances like those of _Il Muto_ or the ball. Stay away from the catwalks and from Box Five; they must be disappointed in their attempt to catch you."

He nodded. "And then, after the performance, I will consider the fate of Monsieur OG. You have my word."


	26. Music Appreciation

**MUSIC APPRECIATION**

Andre buried his head in his hands.

"How can we seriously perform this? We'll be laughed out of Paris! This is the final nail in the coffin, Richard – maybe Lefevre had the right idea."

"Don't make excuses for him. He landed us in this mess in the first place." Firmin frowned. "He knew all about this cursed 'Phantom' when he sold us the theatre."

"It will be the end of our careers; who will take the Opera Populaire seriously after _this_?" Andre jabbed an accusatory finger into the leather folder lying on the desk which still held the original score of _Don Juan Triumphant_. "Good Heavens, it doesn't have one memorable tune! What will the audience be humming when they leave the theatre? Nothing! They will be staring at us horror and demanding their money back!"

"And stuffing their ears with Camembert," muttered Firmin, sinking into a leather armchair which creaked beneath his weight.

"The scholars and connessieurs among them will recognise genius when they hear it," Monsieur Reyer answered, making both the managers jump. The musical director had been so quiet, apparently engrossed in the farrago of an opera with which they had been presented, that they had completely forgotten his presence. "It is brilliant, monsieur, quite brilliant. The pitch, the tone, the scales involved... it is experimental, yes, and incredibly brave, but it is a masterpiece, no doubt about it."

Now it was Andre's turn to frown. "Monsieur, are you quite certain that we are discussing the same opera?"

"It will take a great deal of work, but I believe we will ultimately be applauded for presenting such a piece," Reyer insisted. "Reject it, and your professional reputation will be sealed as that of men who are afraid to take risks."

"I find it hard to believe that the same audience who cheered _Hannibal_ will be attracted by something like this," retorted Andre, stabbing the folder again for good measure. If he could not touch the Phantom himself, he would take out his anger on the Phantom's music. He looked around for the letter opener, but his friend had already appropriated it.

Firmin flicked at the papers with the knife. "I beg to differ, Monsieur," he said to Reyer. "If we put this example of utter lunacy on our stage, we will be run out of town. Not even the Comedie Francais would take on such a... a... travesty!"

"And to think that we are being dictated to in this matter by a man who imagines himself to be a ghost...!" added his partner. Firmin handed him his ever-present hip flask, and Andre took a grateful swig.

Reyer shook his head, getting to his feet and approaching the upright piano which stood against the office wall. He shuffled the printed score, which had been reluctantly circulated amongst the company, and set it on the music stand. "If you will allow me, gentlemen?"

Andre wearily waved a hand. "If you must."

The managers winced as Reyer's nimble fingers flew over the keys, producing a sound which to them was nothing more than a cacophony of discordant notes. It thundered, as if the wrath of God were about to descend, before, just as suddenly, it fell away into soft, gentle melody for a moment, a melody which rose again to become staccato, almost a flamenco. Andre and Firmin forgot their disgust and actually listened, glancing at one another in surprise.

"Now that," Firmin said, "that is really rather good. What is it, and why did were we not aware of it before?"

"It is a duet between Don Juan and the lovely Aminta, the peasant girl he intends to seduce in Act Three," Reyer replied, turning upon the piano stool. "You would be forgiven for missing it; the whole piece is complicated and rather difficult to sight-read."

Andre raised an eyebrow at the slight upon their musical knowledge, but before he could reply the office door burst open and the Vicomte de Chagny strode in, his handsome face twisted in fury. The managers both rose to their feet at the arrival of their patron; Reyer removed himself from the piano and retreated back to his corner with the score. Apparently the musical director had no intention of leaving the room, much to Andre's annoyance.

"Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte," he said, rounding his desk with hand outstretched. "I trust that Mademoiselle Daae is ready to begin rehearsals?"

Raoul ignored the gesture of welcome, stalking to the fireplace and resting one booted foot on the fender. "Mademoiselle Daae will not be singing."

"Not be..." Firmin and Andre glanced at each other in horror. "But she must! Everything hinges upon her participation!"

"I am aware of that, and I have tried to convince her, but still she refuses. I believe that damned Phantom still has his hold over her."

"But surely, it is his wish that she take the role of Aminta," Reyer interjected after quietly clearing his throat. "It would not be in his interests to prevent her appearance."

The vicomte glared at him, and Firmin coughed loudly. "Surely," he said, "She could be persuaded..."

"She is adamant." Raoul turned abruptly and began to pace the office. "I cannot understand her; anyone would think that she would be glad to be rid of that madman stalking her footsteps! Instead she defends him. Why would she do such a thing?"

"Witchcraft, Monsieur, no doubt of it," said Andre. "Once we are all free of him, she will come to her senses."

"I hope you are right, but in the meantime, we are left without a leading lady. Who can we find to take on such a role at short notice?"

Reyer opened his mouth to respond, but the door flew open once more, nearly hitting de Chagny in the face, to reveal La Carlotta on the threshold, followed, as always, by her adoring Piangi. A vision in bright red velvet, her inevitable fur stole around her shoulders; she entered the room with all the subtlety and grace of a battleship. In her gloved hand was clutched a sheaf of papers, which she waved in front of Andre's nose.

"Well?" she demanded. "What 'ave you done about my part in this... this..."

"Gibberish," Piangi supplied. "It can 'ardly be called-a music."

"Si, si! I will not-a be relegated to the back-a row of the chorus while that little snake takes-a centre stage!" Carlotta declared. "You will-a tell 'er not to get ideas above 'er station."

"As I explained before, Signora, I can hardly do that when the roles have been allocated by the composer and we are bound by his decision," Andre said, infusing his voice with all the deference he could muster. He gently took the Prima Donna's hand and led her to the chair that Firmin had vacated.

"You cannot-a listen to 'im!" she cried, incensed. "'E is not even a member of-a the company! What-a right does 'e 'ave to dictate what-a Carlotta should do?"

"We cannot afford not to listen," Firmin replied. "If we wish to capture this 'Phantom' and avoid a disaster on the scale of _Il Muto_, we have no choice but to keep him happy. For now, that is," he added, glancing at the vicomte, who nodded in agreement.

"_Molto bene_." Carlotta folded her arms across her ample chest and said, quite calmly, "Then-a it will-a cost you more money."

The managers were aghast at her pronouncement.

"What?" Andre exclaimed.

"How do you come to that conclusion, Signora?" Firmin asked.

She shrugged. "My contract states that I am-a the Prima Donna, and I-a take the lead. Any... shall-a we say _deviation_ from that-a contract requires _compensazione finanziaria_ - financial compensation - for-a my reduction in-a status. Ubaldo?" She glanced at Piangi, and he nodded emphatically.

Firmin withdrew a big spotted handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. "This situation is a little... _irregular_, Signora, you must see that."

"And the Opera has lost so much money of late, thanks to the Phantom, that I am afraid we just cannot consider such a payment," Andre added, trying to hide his horror at the thought of having to enter yet another negative figure in the accounts.

"We have the vacancy in the Aminta role," said Reyer. "That should satisfy Signora Guidicelli, surely?"

Andre shot him a look that made it quite clear he would like to see the musical director disappear in a puff of smoke. Carlotta preened at the suggestion she should play an innocent young waif, and Raoul rolled his eyes.

"I hardly think _that_ will attract the Phantom, and his attendance is, after all, what we are attempting to ensure," he said, and the diva's face fell. "Our intention is not to perform an opera, per se, but to catch a criminal. Do not forget that."

"We have not forgotten, Monsieur le Vicomte," Firmin replied, "But in Mademoiselle Daae's absence, what else are we to do? There is no one else who can sing that part; are you sure she will not reconsider?"

"And how am I to achieve that?" asked Raoul, visibly annoyed now. "I cannot not force her; that would make me no better than him, and I will not do that to her. Perhaps Madame Giry - "

Firmin shook his head dismissively. "No, no, she is in the Phantom's pocket."

"Still, she does have some influence with the girl," Andre mused. "Maybe if we - "

He was interrupted by a light tap on the door. When no one moved, Reyer crossed the room and opened it; to the surprise of everyone in the room, Christine Daae stood there, a bulky musical score under her arm and one hand raised to knock again.

"I'm sorry," she said, shrinking back slightly at the six pairs of eyes that were staring at her, "but I've been in the rehearsal room and I was wondering where everyone had got to. I've been waiting for half an hour."


	27. Tantrums and Tiaras

**Author's Note:**

Thanks once again to all those who have reviewed, and who are still with me – am very glad you're still enjoying it. :)

Chapter title this week comes from, of all places, a Nineties documentary about Elton John.

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><p><strong>TANTRUMS AND TIARAS<strong>

It was when rehearsals began that Erik started to wonder whether obtaining revenge by forcing a production of his opera had been an entirely good idea.

Hearing his precious music butchered by the amateurs and imbeciles which made up the majority of the Populaire's company while the unfortunate Monsieur Reyer struggled to maintain both order and some semblance of artistic integrity was an experience akin to torture. Piangi, the fool, could not even manage a simple line like '_Those who would tangle with Don Juan'_, mangling it each and every time despite the repeated attempts of the frustrated musical director. Erik found himself feeling a newfound respect for Reyer; anyone who could deal with such incompetence on a regular basis and refrain from committing murder was to be admired.

Haunting the practise rooms like the Phantom he was, he quickly became privy to every discussion, argument and heated difference of opinion. It was one thing to hear these directed towards a mediocre or long-dead composer and laugh, but when it was his own work under fire it was extremely difficult to remain impassive. Carlotta was always the instigator, voicing her views on everything from his ability as a musician to the state of his ugly face, all in language which, had he been a more sensitive soul and not learned to cultivate something of a thick skin over the years, would have made him wither in defeat and rush to withdraw his score. Her shrill railings against the size of her role and the prominence given to Christine rang through the theatre, leaving no one, even the lowliest member of the company, unaware of the real reason she believed that the ingénue had been cast over her. Were she not a woman, and had Erik not promised Christine not to become involved, he would have made her pay for her words. To sully his angel's reputation by suggesting that she was 'the Phantom's whore'..! Buquet lost his life for insinuating much the same thing, albeit by the hand of God rather than the hand of Erik, but with the same end result. To assuage his anger, once rehearsals had transferred to the stage he settled for dropping a sandbag within an inch of the Prima Donna's head, which had the effect of terrifying her enough to stop her mouth for half a day at least.

Unfortunately, the change in venue brought with it more irritations, for it was then that the Vicomte de Chagny decided to attend. No doubt in a deliberate attempt to infuriate his rival, the young nobleman chose Box Five from which to observe proceedings, putting it off-limits to its 'owner'. Upon reaching the hollow pillar which served as his invisible entry point to the box, Erik seethed when he found de Chagny inside, settled quite comfortably in the big red velvet chair that had been installed for the exclusive use of the Opera Ghost back in the days when the management was far more sensible and amenable to his demands. The boy looked as though he owned the place!

Erik growled, the Phantom rearing his head. It would not do. If the vicomte wanted a war, then a war he would have.

Using the tactics which had always worked so well on the rare occasions he found some hapless and ignorant theatre-goer occupying his seat, he started quietly, sending a stream of nonsensical whispers around the box. Raoul frowned, listened, sat up slightly, and then shook his head, returning his attention to the stage. In retaliation, Erik increased the volume, this time throwing a sentence back and forth through the air as though in a bizarre disembodied conversation. For his own amusement, he affected a different voice each time, his inspiration taken from the lords who frequented the Grand Tier to the fishwives out in the street, a gradual cacophony of chatter which culminated in a passably accurate impersonation of de Chagny himself. Upon hearing his own voice at his shoulder, Raoul started, leaping from his chair and staring wildly into the shadows that surrounded him.

"Come out!" he cried, his voice high and trembling before he cleared his throat, trying to regain a more manly tone. "Come out, you coward! I know you are there!"

Erik smiled wolfishly, safe in his passage within the pillar. "I'm here, the Phantom of the Opera..." he murmured, and the words appeared to come from the opposite side of the box. Raoul turned, following the voice, and so Erik threw it behind him, teasing, "Or perhaps I'm here..." from the ceiling above, "Or here..." the floor, "Here..." and finally beyond the edge, into the auditorium, "Or here?"

De Chagny twisted and turned like a stuck pig, eyes flicking around him in desperation to pin down his unseen tormentor. Erik could not help but laugh at the sight, and allowed his deep, rumbling chuckle to move across the opulent space, from one side of the box to the other, making the young man jump once again.

"My dear vicomte," he said softly, slipping just a hint of menace into his honeyed tones, "You appear to be in some distress. Perhaps you should go and lie down; a cold compress and a touch of sal volatile can work wonders, I believe."

"You bastard. You twisted, malformed _bastard_." Raoul forced the words through gritted teeth, his good hand clenching into a fist at his side. "Show yourself, and we will end this here and now. Or are you so scared of facing me that you hide behind walls?"

The suggestion that he should be frightened of a privileged child who could barely point a pistol in the right direction just amused Erik even more. Those below on the stage glanced up at the sound of his mirth, and from his vantage point he could see Christine's nervous expression as she clutched her libretto to her chest. Her mouth opened slightly and she made the tiniest shake of her head. Erik felt a twinge of guilt, having given her his word that he would stay safe. It was an unfamiliar emotion to him, and he was not sure he liked the sensations it produced.

"I would take care, Monsieur," he whispered in Raoul's left ear. "You have no idea of the danger into which you are walking."

A sneer curled the vicomte's perfect lips. "I know exactly what you are, _Monsieur_," he spat. "A carnival freak, a sideshow charlatan; a man with nothing more to offer than parlour tricks and frustrated tantrums! For what you have done to Christine I would gladly see you crushed beneath my heel."

"Is that so?" Rage boiled up within Erik, and he flexed his fingers, wishing that he could wrap them around that noble white neck. It was just as well that they were separated by a substantial pillar and he did not have the space to deploy the Punjab lasso, for were the situation more to his advantage de Chagny would not last a moment, regardless of the promises he had made to Christine. The foolish boy would make an attractive addition to the decor of the auditorium, dangling from the ledge of Box Five as a warning to all who trespassed upon the Phantom's territory. "And does Mademoiselle Daae agree?"

"She loathes you just as much as I," Raoul hissed, and Erik found himself smiling for he knew that the vicomte was lying. "I will stop at nothing to ensure that she is free of your malignant influence."

Bored with this game now, Erik turned to leave. "Do your worst, Monsieur le Vicomte," he said, and added as a parting shot, "I look forward to seeing how far you dare go!"


	28. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

**Author's Note:**

This fic has grown somewhat from my original intention – when I started I didn't think I would end up retelling a large part of the story! We are now heading chronologically towards the end, but it's going to be a while before we get there. I hope you enjoy the ride. :)

Chapter title from the Elton John single and album of the same name.

* * *

><p><strong>GOODBYE YELLOW BRICK ROAD<strong>

"Raoul, I've made up my mind. I want to go home."

Christine had been steeling herself to tell him for the past week. Nice as the Hotel de Chagny was, she had found herself longing more and more for her little flat and its cosy, homely rooms; though she had been there for more than six months now, she still did not feel entirely comfortable amongst the lavish furnishings which, though tasteful, simply reeked of money and privilege. Raoul, she knew, barely noticed them, but then he had been around such wealth his entire life and probably had no idea how much it was all worth. Christine could make an educated guess, and knew that it was more than she could hope to earn if she lived to a hundred.

Truthfully, the arrangement was beginning to prove awkward. Since she returned to the Opera Raoul insisted upon accompanying her in the carriage; it had not been too bad for the first couple of weeks, but then he began to attend the rehearsals as well, and when she returned to her dressing room at the end of the day there he was again, waiting to escort her back to the de Chagny mansion. Christine knew that he was only doing it out of concern for her, but a few days of having absolutely no time to herself started to make her feel claustrophobic. She had wild urges to run up to the roof and fling out her arms, shouting to the sky, desperate to find some sort of freedom; she did not mention this to Raoul, as he would not understand. Since June he could only see the theatre as a threat, a danger, something from which he was determined to keep her safe. Though she appreciated his efforts, and the love from which they were born, Christine could not help but feel stifled. And then there was Erik to consider...

Shortly after rehearsals began, he repeated his offer of help with her role, this time in a rather more generous manner than the ultimatum he had flung at her the night of the masquerade. The score was difficult, almost impossible, and she accepted gratefully, knowing that, though she had been trying her best, Monsieur Reyer could tell that she was struggling. There could be no one more perfect to assist her than the composer himself; he knew her voice better than anyone, and if he believed she could sing his complicated, radical music then sing it she would with his guidance. Unfortunately, since the agreement was made, there had been no opportunity for them to even speak. Inside the opera house, Raoul would not let Christine out of his sight, and as he was always ensconced in her room for over half an hour before the official end of the afternoon session she could not slip out early and meet Erik at the mirror. It was a situation which frustrated them both, and there would be absolutely nothing to be gained in trying to explain it to Raoul. Seeing Erik as little more than a madman and a monster, he would be horrified at her perfidy; no matter how hard she tried Christine could not make him see that there _was_ a man behind the monster, a broken, bitter man who had been shunned his entire life. He refused to open his eyes, just as Erik refused accept that there was more to Raoul than casual arrogance and money.

Christine sighed inwardly. Raoul could not help his upbringing any more than Erik could the terrible experiences which had made him what he was today. Two men, one charmed by birth and ancient lineage, Lady Luck smiling upon him, and the other cursed, touched as some would say by the hand of the Devil. How could they possibly hope to understand each other? Why should they even wish to try? The only thing they had in common was their affection – their love - for her. She wanted to fist the tablecloth and sink her face into the soufflé in front of her. Why must everything be so complicated?

She was grateful that they were eating in the little private dining room that was part of Raoul's suite. Dinner with the rest of the family on the rare occasions it was demanded always felt like a trial of endurance; Christine was sure that all eyes were on her, waiting for her to make a mistake and use the wrong fork with the fish course, or make it obvious that she was enjoying her food. It was more nerve-wracking than an opening night at the theatre could ever be, and would present no opportunity for bringing up the subject she had just broached.

Raoul looked up in surprise at her announcement. "Home?" he repeated, confused. "But why? Are you not happy here?"

"It's not that, I just - " She searched in vain for the right explanation. Though she cared for him - indeed, she still loved him dearly - she knew that she couldn't tell him the truth. "I'm very grateful to Philippe and your mother for allowing me to stay here, but... I miss my flat, I miss having my own things around me."

Raoul wiped his lips with a napkin and set his fork aside. "Well, that's easily rectified. I can send someone for your things in the morning. You should have mentioned it before; I would have had them fetched in a heartbeat."

"I know, I know you would, but that wasn't quite what I meant." Christine pushed away her plate, and it was removed almost immediately, reminding her that even when it was just the two of them they could never be truly alone. She had realised soon after her arrival at the hotel that even away from the theatre she was still always being watched, and the eyes upon her were hostile. "I need... I need my own space again, I need solitude and the freedom to just gather my thoughts. And don't forget that my flat is much closer to the Opera – you wouldn't need to escort me every day."

"You make it sound like a chore," he said with an affectionate smile. "I _like_ accompanying you."

She returned his smile. "And I like having you there." _Most of the time_, she added silently, hating herself for having to lie to him. "But I'm needed almost constantly now and it's much more convenient if I have to stay late. I can walk home, and there would be no need to have your coachman waiting around for me."

"Are late nights likely to be a requirement?" Raoul asked, frowning. Christine knew what he was thinking, and though he was partially correct she wasn't about to confirm his suspicions. The only way to survive the next few weeks would be to keep Raoul and Erik apart.

"They are if you wish opening night to be on the twenty-seventh," she said, deliberately keeping her tone level.

"It won't just be opening night, it will be the only night." He reached for his wine glass, which was obediently topped up by the footman hovering behind his chair. "After all, there will be no need to perform that particular work again once the Phantom is gone. His music will be destroyed along with his influence, and need pollute the halls no longer."

Christine's blood ran cold at the thought of Erik's beautiful music no longer filling the hidden corners and darkened passageways of the theatre. Even when she could not see him, she could feel it on an instinctive level, rising up from the bowels of the Opera and seeping through the cracks in the marble, reaching out to her. Few others heard it as she did. For Raoul to just casually dismiss it, to refer to the Phantom's removal as though he were doing no more than ridding his stables of rats made her feel physically sick. Erik was more than just the building's 'ghost', more than just a pest, an infestation which had to be disposed of; he was part of its fabric. In some ways he _was_ the Opera. She couldn't imagine what it could possibly be like without him. Forcing her face into a neutral expression, she said, "It seems a great shame to put in so much work for just one night."

"Well, that doesn't really matter, does it?" Raoul took a sip of wine, and nodded appreciatively. "You'll have no need to tread the boards again when this is all over."

Christine put a hand over her glass when the footman tried to refill it. "What do you mean?" she asked, more sharply than she intended.

Raoul smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, Christine. Come a week on Saturday you'll be truly free. You'll never have to return to the opera house; the future Vicomtess de Chagny will not need to work, naturally. We'll be able to spend all our time together, away from the fear and the bad memories – just think of it!" He sat forwards in his chair, face alight with enthusiasm. "We could go back to Perros, if you'd like, walk along the beach. I'll even fetch your scarf again if you lose it. It'll be just like the old days."

"Raoul," said Christine, trying to quell the horror she felt at the suggestion that she would never sing again, "I love my job. I love singing; I don't want to give it up."

"And you won't have to. My brother throws all manner of parties and musical soirees; you'll outshine all those silly girls who think they're talented because they can plunk away at a piano. And I'll engage the finest singing teacher Paris has to offer if you wish, so you won't fall out of practise." He jumped up, the footman automatically pulling back his chair, and rounded the table to her side, leaning over to rest his bandaged hand on her shoulder and drop a kiss on her forehead. Pinching her cheek fondly, he whispered, "My little nightingale."

"But Raoul - !" It was too late, he was already through the doors. Christine sat, dejected, her hands in her lap, wanting to cry but refusing to do so. Behind her the servants stood, immobile, waiting until she decided to rise from the table; she could feel their eyes on her and once again had that urge to run away. Under her breath, she murmured, "I don't need the finest tutor in Paris.

"I already have the best teacher in the world."


	29. I'm Going Slightly Mad

**Author's Note:**

Chapter title this week courtesy of Queen.

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><p><strong>I'M GOING SLIGHTLY MAD<strong>

"Good Grief, _more_ notes! How much longer must we endure this?"

Madame Giry stopped as Monsieur Andre's voice carried through the closed door of the managers' office. Tiptoeing a little closer, she stood to one side listening intently. Eavesdropping was morally wrong, but she had learned a long time ago that it was the only way to find out exactly what was going on.

"Only a few days more, old man," Firmin replied. "Come Saturday, we'll all be free of him. Just think of the increase in profits!"

"If we still have a theatre," Andre said glumly. "Are you quite sure that this pantomime will work? The vicomte has made promises, but I spoke to the Chief Commissioner yesterday evening and he will send none of his men unless we have hard evidence that a crime has been, or is likely to be, committed. We have no proof of this Phantom's wrongdoing – the survey of the chandelier stated quite plainly that it was accident waiting to happen and - "

"You worry too much. De Chagny has men of his own to call upon, and between his forces and ours we will have more than enough to surround the Opera. The Phantom will have to be a real ghost to escape us!"

Andre made a non-committal grunt and Antoinette could hear the rustling of papers, no doubt the letters she had delivered for Erik earlier that day. Rehearsals were not progressing to his satisfaction and the fact that some of the cast were not taking it seriously quite clearly offended his perfectionist nature; however the opera had come to the stage, he understandably wanted to see it realised in the most professional and accurate manner possible, to the extent of redrawing the production designs himself and demanding the replacement of more of the company. However, his demands were becoming more and more irrational and Madame Giry could not see how they could possibly be fulfilled, an opinion it would seem was shared by the managers.

"Look at this: _I seem to recall instructing that you should relieve the third trombone of his obviously onerous duties with immediate effect and find another musician who has full use of his hearing. Three weeks have passed, and that tone-deaf fool is still ruining my score. I expect this to be rectified by opening night_." Andre gave a slightly hysterical laugh. "Does the man think that experienced brass players are ten a penny at such short notice?"

"Calm down, Gilles, you'll have a coronary," said Firmin. Leather creaked as he evidently rose from his chair; footsteps approached the door and Madame Giry shrank back into the shadows, but the scrape of a match merely indicated that Firmin had got up to light a cigar.

"Here is another: _Carlotta's acting is still not up to my standards. Even members of the chorus must be able to do more than strut and posture in the manner of Lady Hamilton and her famous Attitudes. If our dear diva does not improve, her modest part will have to be cut altogether._ Dear God, it is enough to drive a man into an asylum! When does the vicomte arrive?" Andre asked.

"This evening. He would normally be watching the rehearsal but I believe there may be trouble in paradise: Mademoiselle Daae has left the family home."

"Really? I thought she knew which side her bread was buttered."

"She's a virginal little thing; perhaps she has finally become concerned for her reputation," Firmin said, sounding amused. "Two days ago de Chagny would not let her out of his sight – I think he was terrified that the Phantom would spirit the beautiful Christine away if he was not there to monitor her every move."

Andre sighed. "There are times when I think it would be easier for all of us if we allowed him to do just that."

* * *

><p>The by now familiar discordant music of <em>Don Juan Triumphant<em> echoed through the tunnels long before Antoinette reached the house by the lake.

Bouncing from the rock which surrounded her, the rich, unearthly sound of the pipe organ wove and swelled, mingling with Christine's bright, clear voice, at times almost drowning her out altogether as the man taming the instrument became more and more agitated. Music was Erik's passion, and he was for too caught up with his own composition to be objective. After a few moments, there was a crash and a cacophony of wrong notes which set Madame Giry's teeth on edge and could only have come from the frustrated Phantom slamming his hands down upon the keyboard.

"No, no, no, _no_, Christine!" he shouted. "How many times do I have to say it? You should be reaching for a top E, not a C! Without that note, the whole meaning of the line is altered."

"I'm sorry, Erik, I've tried but I just can't," Christine protested as Antoinette found the hidden latch on the front door and let herself in. Light spilled into the hall from the music room, and it was there that she was met by a scene of chaos, manuscript paper scattered every which way and a tearful little soprano standing by the piano wringing her hands as Erik leaned on the lid, scribbling manically across her bound _Don Juan_ libretto.

"You can, you _know_ you can," he insisted, attention fixed upon whichever portion of the score he was altering now. "You could do better than this when we first began our lessons; by now you should be able to reach these notes effortlessly."

"I think you believe me to be capable of much more than is really the case," she said miserably, glancing towards Madame Giry for help.

Erik shot her a glare of annoyance. Antoinette had not seen him for a few days and he looked as though he had not slept for a week, the visible side of his face grey with fatigue and his hair standing on end from the constant distracted attention of his fingers. To her surprise, he had discarded his jacket and his sleeves were rolled up; she doubted he had even noticed the ink that had transferred from his stained fingertips to the forehead of his mask. "Nonsense," he snapped. "I am well aware of your range and ability. You are simply not trying. Do you wish my opera to fail?"

It was clear that Christine was close to tears. Nerves were obviously fraying and Madame Giry decided that it was high time she stepped in. "Your opera will fail whatever any of us do, Erik," she said, and the furious mismatched gaze was turned upon her. "It is doomed; your desire for revenge has seen to that."

"I will thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, Madame," he said coldly, stalking past her and setting the rewritten music before the organ. Seating himself, he ran his fingers over the keys, teasing from them the opening bars of Aminta's first aria. "Again, Christine, and this time do try and make it sound as though you mean it."

Lip quivering, the poor child took a deep breath, dutifully readying herself to make another attempt to fulfil her maestro's impossible commands, but before she could produce a note Antoinette interrupted.

"Erik, stop this," she said sharply, and he froze, hands poised above the keyboard. "No good will come of wearing Christine to the bone. She is tired, can you not see that? If you continue to push, her voice will suffer, and then where will your precious opera be?"

There was a long pause, during which Christine looked between the ballet mistress and her teacher, her dark eyes anxious. Madame Giry waited, hands folded, quite prepared for the appearance of an angry Opera Ghost in full flight, but Erik did nothing but sit there in imitation of the wax dummy in the corner. Eventually, his head sank forwards until it was resting against the libretto in front of him and he groaned.

"You must forgive me." His voice was muffled. "This piece... it is so close to my heart that I sometimes become blind to all else. When one hears music constantly in their mind, the reality does not always live up to such sublime expectation."

Christine's face softened in sympathy, and she approached the organ to lay a gentle hand upon his shoulder. A shudder ran through his thin frame at her touch and he made the tiniest moan; from pleasure or pain Antoinette could not tell. She crossed the room to stand beside the instrument, a piece of quite fabulous engineering that she had often wondered exactly how he had come to acquire. Erik had noticed her covert glances towards it over the years, she knew, but in his typical enigmatic fashion refused to explain the presence of a church organ in the cellars of the Opera.

"Why put yourself through this madness?" she asked, and he glanced up at her in surprise. "You could leave all of it behind. My offer still stands: I will get you on the last train out of Paris tonight if that is what you wish."

"And my music will be buried with me forever."

"Erik, any music publisher with half an ear would grab your compositions with both hands, you know that. Do not do yourself such an injustice."

"And when they discover that they were written by a gargoyle?" he enquired, his visible eyebrow arching. He pushed himself up from the stool and strode towards the fireplace. "No, no matter what you say you will not convince me. I know too much of the world to imagine that it will suddenly choose to enfold me within its embrace; its back was turned too long ago. But here..." Turning, he spread his arms wide, as though encompassing the entire opera, his eyes blazing. "This is my realm, my kingdom. Here all bow to my command, hang upon my every word. This is _my_ theatre, and I _will_ see my work performed. I will _not_ run away from children and their toy soldiers!"

Antoinette went to him, and took his hand. He stared at her fingers interlaced with his in astonishment; she had never instigated such an affectionate gesture before. "You saved my life," she said quietly, touching his masked cheek with her free hand and forcing him to look at her. "For God's sake, don't throw yours away on something so trivial."

He gave her a sad, lopsided smile. "Ah, but to me, Annie, it is anything but trivial. And your life was always worth so much more than mine."

"Oh, Erik. How can you say that?" She squeezed his fingers but he carefully pulled away from her, putting some distance between them. Blinking furiously, he rubbed at the uncovered side of his face, transferring more ink to his skin.

"Raoul is gathering as many men from his estates as he can," Christine said, a wobble of desperation in her voice. "He is offering them a substantial payment in exchange for their assistance. They won't let you leave the theatre."

"Then we are in agreement, for I do not wish to leave. Where would I go?" Erik asked the room at large. "This is the only home I have known for more years than I care to remember. Your vicomte is not the Opera Ghost, my dear, and his imagination is dreadfully mundane. If I do not wish to be found, he could search to the ends of the earth and never discover my whereabouts."

"We only want to see you safe, Erik," Antoinette said. "Even without gendarmes, this will be no place for you on Saturday."

He shook his head. "If I fly now, they will have won, and I made a vow a long time ago that no one would ever beat me again. But this joke of theirs is already wearing thin; come Saturday night it will be time to admit the audience and we will see Don Juan triumph at last." Striding back towards the organ, he added over his shoulder, "And a triumph it _will_ be, I promise you that."

Madame Giry exchanged a glance with Christine, and without speaking knew that they both feared that it would be anything but.


	30. The Show Must Go On

**Author's Note:**

Chapter title once again from Freddie Mercury and Queen.

* * *

><p><strong>THE SHOW MUST GO ON<strong>

The Opera House was abuzz.

Erik could not recall experiencing such a feeling of anticipation for many a long year; no other production, whatever its title or however starry its cast, had drawn so much attention in such a short time. It was as though all Paris knew that the Phantom's opera was to be performed, and was desperate to share in the thrill, to experience vicariously the horror of which they had read in the newspapers and heard from the lips of gossips. Word had travelled fast after the masquerade; the queue for returned tickets stretched around the block, and there was not a seat to be had.

Well, he mused, that was not strictly true. There was one seat free, but he doubted even the most curious patron would wish to take it. Box Five stood empty, conspicuously so. Erik had been forced to abandon it, to forgo its superior view for the crowning moment of his musical career; he understood and reluctantly bowed to Christine's pleas that he should keep himself out of harm's way, but that did not stop him gnashing his teeth in anger at the fool who had pushed him from his rightful place. Thanks to the vicomte, everyone knew that Box Five was the haunt of the Phantom; laughably, he had even commanded that a spotlight be focussed upon the red velvet chair within, as though Erik would be stupid enough to display himself to the assembled throng, giving them the perfect opportunity to point and stare!

The thought of so many eyes upon him made him shudder, memories of the gypsy carnival bubbling up uninvited. Bars seemed to close in on him from the darkness and he forced the images away, crushing them to powder in his mind's eye. All that was many years past now, and he was too wise, too experienced, to allow such a thing to happen again. He had been weak and off-guard, the illness which dogged his steps for months following his return from the Orient making him slow to react and giving the group of men drinking in the corner of the dingy tavern a chance to take him by surprise. His heart still clenched in panic as he recalled awakening from a drug-induced sleep to find himself maskless, lying in the dirty straw like an animal. There was no way in the world that he would let de Chagny and his ilk humiliate him as those travelling entertainers had done. He would show them that _he_ was in control here.

A sudden noise from above startled Erik from his reverie. There was the heavy clump of footsteps followed by the squeal of chairs being dragged across the floor before the assorted familiar sounds of the orchestra tuning up filtered through the gaps into the black pit beneath the stage in which he had been sitting all afternoon. No one ever ventured down there, into a dusty, claustrophobic hole which was not even used for storage; it was the perfect place for a Phantom to hide. He imagined the bustle backstage, could see clearly the ballerinas rushing to and fro, the stagehands swarming into the flies, calling to one another and making rude jokes as they settled themselves; amongst the chaos, Christine would be in her dressing room, putting on the exquisite costume Madame Michon had created to Erik's own designs. Was she nervous? Would her interfering fiancé allow her time to herself before the performance, or did he insist upon staying with her until the very last moment? Erik wished he could see her, just briefly, to wish her luck and tell her how beautiful she looked, but she had made him promise to stay well out of the way and he had been forced to agree.

Down here, he could only supplement the taunting sounds with pictures from his own memory. Antoinette would be giving her dancers their last instructions; Piangi no doubt would still be in his room, warming up and taking a nip of something for Dutch courage; Carlotta, despite her lowly position in the chorus, must surely make everyone wait for her as she had always done. The tension in the air would be palpable, especially with so much riding on this performance for the management. Erik had always enjoyed the first night atmosphere, had felt rejuvenated by the electricity in the air. He could experience nothing here in the dark, listening for the aural scraps thrown his way. It was _his_ opera, damn it! Any other composer would be feted, invited to the managers' box to watch the fruits of his labour unfold in comfort; they would not be mouldering beneath the stage with musty old curtains and cobwebs the size of battleships.

The orchestra had stopped their tuning; the rumble of conversation in the auditorium died gradually away into an expectant hush. A few feet above his head, the conductor would be lifting his baton. The first note was about to rise into the air, to announce the beginning of the overture. Erik stood for a moment, indecisive, and then turned abruptly on his heel, striding towards the ladder which led to the very back of the stage. He was not going to miss the show, no matter what the danger.

* * *

><p>The first two acts passed without incident.<p>

Erik had not allowed the unusual activity about the theatre for most of the day to pass unnoticed; he knew exactly where de Chagny's men were stationed, precisely how many were guarding each door and lining the aisles and staircases. They had even drafted in a brace of firemen, though quite what use they might be he couldn't fathom. Surely they didn't think he would try the trick with the chandelier twice? It wounded his pride to be credited with so little imagination.

Clambering out of the trapdoor behind a pile of discarded scenery, he wrapped himself in his cloak and retreated deep into the shadows. From there he could see only the rear of the stage, but his view of the wings was unrivalled and though his position lacked the acoustics of the auditorium itself he could hear well enough if he ignored the rhythmic thump of the dancers' feet upon the boards.

Act Two ended with Don Juan discussing with his servant Passarino his plan to seduce the lovely Aminta. After the interval would come the sensuous duet Erik had composed while his desperation and desire for Christine was running at full tilt. During their lessons over the past two weeks, he had not dared to rehearse it with her for fear that feelings would be running far too high for him to keep control. He turned it over constantly in his mind, recoiling in disgust from the thought of Christine singing those words to the tubby, sweating Piangi, a man who, however kindly, often had trouble keeping his hands to himself. Now such a blasphemy would take place in front of him, mere feet from where he stood, and he steeled himself against the approaching torture.

A bell rang backstage, warning the cast that there were just five minutes until the curtain rose once more. Christine would enter from stage right, so Erik could not even see her for a moment; he cursed himself for not paying more attention to the direction in which he was walking when he emerged from the trapdoor. Behind him the portly form of Piangi appeared from his dressing room, followed by the mousy little girl who took care of his costumes, to take up his place for the beginning of Act Three. The little dresser was helping him on with the voluminous cloak which was Don Juan's elaborate disguise; as she adjusted the folds a voice called sharply from further down the passage,

"Ubaldo!"

Erik couldn't help turning to see Carlotta standing there. The diva should have been preparing to return to the stage with the rest of the chorus, but instead of her costume and mantilla she wore her day clothes, a small case held tightly in one hand and her bad-tempered pug tucked under one arm. To his credit, Piangi looked as surprised as Erik felt. He gestured to dismiss the dresser, who scuttled away to assist someone else, and hurried to Carlotta's side.

"Cara? What is-a the matter? Are you ill?"

"No. I am-a leaving," she declared. "I go back to Milan; no more-a will I be humiliated an-a pushed aside by skinny little trollops 'oo think-a they can-a sing. These people are savages – they do not-a know talent when they 'ear it!"

"But Cara, the performance – you cannot-a leave now!" Piangi protested, his chubby face creased in confusion. "Afterwards, then-a we will talk it over, decide what is-a best to do - "

"It is-a too late for that! I can-a go an' go I will. No more Carlotta to be 'umiliated by ghosts and Phantoms – this place is-a mad! They should all-a be locked up!" Carlotta hefted her bag and turned towards the stage door. "Are-a you coming?"

"Carlotta, I am-a the leading man! I cannot-a just walk out!" exclaimed the befuddled tenor. "What-a will 'appen to the show?"

"'Oo cares what 'appens?" Carlotta retorted. "I am-a done with them all. Let-a the Phantom 'ave 'em!"

Piangi hesitated, obviously torn. After a few tense moments, his head moving between the stage and his beloved like that of a spectator at a tennis match, he tore off the cloak and threw it to the floor, hurrying after the departing Carlotta still dressed in the Don's doublet and hose.

Erik could hear their arguing voices becoming fainter and fainter as they made their way down the corridor. He wanted to be elated that he was finally rid of the dreadful Guidicelli woman, but there were more important concerns monopolising his attention. As he slowly emerged from the shadows the entre act died away and he could see the curtain rising, Christine's clear soprano drifting towards him as she walked innocently into Don Juan's trap. She was a vision in vivid salmon pink silk, bracelets on her slender wrists and Spanish combs in her luxuriant curls; her voice cut him to the core, more perfect than ever thanks to their intensive rehearsals.

Piangi's cue came and went; across the stage Reyer was gesturing impatiently to the darkness of the wings where Erik stood. He knew that the brilliant lights meant the musical director could not see him, but if nothing happened soon Reyer would make his discreet way across in search of the missing tenor. The baritone playing Passarino looked confused, awaiting the response which would herald that duet and Aminta's seduction.

Erik looked down at his feet. There lay Piangi's discarded cloak, a cloak with a hood so vast it would disguise any man completely. He glanced down the corridor once more, but the two Italians were long gone. Without Don Juan, there was no opera, and no opera meant that he had failed. The Phantom would no longer be a threat, a force to be reckoned with; he would be a laughing stock.

Almost without thinking, he snatched up the cloak, shedding his own along with his hat and draping the folds of material around his shoulders. Arranging the hood with practised fingers so that it cast the right side of his face into shadow, he stood straight as Reyer repeated the Don's cue, and stepped onto the stage.

The show _would_ go on, if it was the last thing he ever did.


	31. Into the Fire

**Author's Note:**

Thanks once again to those of you who have reviewed – I really appreciate all your comments.

The lyrics quoted in this chapter do not belong to me.

* * *

><p><strong>INTO THE FIRE<strong>

The moment the cloaked figure slipped out from behind the curtains of the set, Christine knew that it was not Piangi.

Never mind the fact that the form beneath the swirling black fabric was tall and lean; there was no mistaking the noble, erect carriage and the almost feline grace which accompanied him as he moved. And no other voice could start that tingle at the very base of her spine, could have her breathless and trembling within a few notes, as though it had the power to reach right through her and grasp hold of the very core of her being, the part that knew no words and responded only to instinct.

She found that she could not move as he walked slowly towards her, all thought of her character and the carefully practised blocking flown from her mind. The skin of the apple she had picked from the bowl on the richly-draped table felt strange and uneven in her hand, every imperfection sharp beneath her fingers like the rough unhewn surface of granite. Dimly she was aware of the audience, of the orchestra and Monsieur Reyer to one side with his libretto open in front of him, but she paid them little heed. There was nothing else in the world at that moment; no one else truly existed but the two of them, Don Juan and Aminta, Erik and Christine.

Barely aware even of the words he sang, she lost herself in the sound. He circled her, like a prowling lion, those long white fingers brushing across her shoulders, down her arm, teasing for a moment a curl of her hair before withdrawing just as swiftly as they had come. Their sudden absence awoke an ache within her that she had never experienced before but longed to feel again. Dear God, how many times had she rehearsed the scene? It had never felt like this!

And then, abruptly, the spell was broken. That beautiful, unearthly voice faded away and reality returned to Christine with all the shock of a slap in the face. The apple in her hand was just an apple again, and the man in front of her, shrouded in black, was in terrible danger. Fear replaced the desire which had briefly flared within her; those fingers which ran up and down her spine were now sparked by dread.

She somehow managed to recall her lines, suddenly acutely aware of the men surrounding the stage and of Raoul's eyes on her as he watched from the managers' private box. She glanced up to meet his gaze and he smiled, gesturing to her encouragingly. Had he seen through the deception? Did he have any idea that behind the disguise was not Ubaldo Piangi but the very man he wished to catch? She couldn't tell, and she couldn't take the chance that he might remain in ignorance, not if she wished to avert the impending disaster. Why, oh _why_ had Erik not remained hidden?

Moving around the table, which groaned with food and wine, a suckling pig comically staring up at her with a look that suggested it had been surprised by its fate, she marshalled her courage, swished her skirts and launched into Aminta's half of the duet. Erik was seated now, at one end of the bench, and she crossed to him, daring to lean against him from behind and initiate the closest contact they had yet shared.

"_Past the point of no return – no going back now; our passion play has now at last begun_... what are you doing here?" she hissed, her mouth inches from where she assumed his left ear must be.

Startled, he replied, just as softly, "There is no Don Juan - did you expect me to just let the performance fall apart?"

"_Past all thought of right or wrong – one final question: how long should we too wait until we're one_...? Where is Signor Piangi?" Christine asked, not entirely sure she wanted to know the answer.

Erik's hands moved as if to push her away and so she boldly stretched even further across his shoulders, taking his icy fingers in hers and holding them tightly. "Gone."

"Gone? Gone where? _When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames at last consume us?"_

"Back to Italy, or possibly Outer Mongolia. It's no concern of mine," he muttered, trying to free himself from her grasp.

"And what will happen when Don Juan reveals himself?" Christine demanded under her breath as they both stood and she at last released his left hand. For a moment they stood at arms' length, their voices mingling for the first time beyond the confines of her dressing room or the house by the lake. She felt the strange kick deep within her gut once more, her heart racing so fast she thought for only the second time in her life that she might truly faint.

"._.the bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn... We've passed the point of no return.._."

The words and music died away, replaced by nothing more than a peculiar hush and the occasional rustle from the auditorium. Christine's fingers were still entwined with Erik's; he made no move to free himself, or to move the scene onwards. The libretto dictated that he should kiss her and then lead her to the bed in the alcove as Passarino announced his return. All eyes were on them both; she could see Reyer gesticulating wildly from the corner of her eye, while Meg and the other ballet rats huddled in the wings watched in confusion. Through the sheer fabric of the cloak's hood, she could make out the white of Erik's mask and the paleness of the uncovered side of his face. He looked... he looked stymied, she realised. Bewilderment was written clearly across his visible features, and she could feel him trembling as though the new electrical current were being run straight up his arm. Though he himself had planned and written the scene, he clearly had no idea what he should do next.

Christine had spent most of her life taking direction from others. She had relied, as most girls were wont to do, on her father for guidance, trusting implicitly that he would steer her through the storms of life; when Papa was no longer there to provide the answers, she turned instead to her Angel of Music, needing the hand of a strong man to show her the correct path. In the beginning she even allowed Raoul to gently influence her decisions, still believing deep inside that she was too young and inexperienced to make them for herself.

Now, however, there was no one to show her the way; her guide and guardian had no clue himself. For the first time, he was looking to _her_ to point him in the right direction.

There was a cough from somewhere behind; a covert glance to the box above told her that Andre and Firmin were muttering , and Raoul was staring down at the stage, eyes narrowed in suspicion. A second later, he vanished from her line of sight. Christine had no idea of the scale of the view from that box; her stomach was a leaden weight as she wondered desperately if Raoul could see as she did what was under the hood. Was he coming down? What was he planning? To try and apprehend the Phantom before all these people would be madness!

There was nothing else for it; she would have to move the drama on herself. Dropping his hand, Christine grabbed the folds of Erik's cloak, pulling him towards her. Pushing back the cowl slightly, she caught hold of his head, standing on tiptoe to press her lips against his. Startled, he tried to back away, to tear himself from her grip, but she would not let him, moving her fingers to cup his masked cheek. His mouth felt strange, its bloated and twisted shape so different to Raoul's, but the skin was surprisingly soft and it was not an unpleasant sensation. His mask bumped against her nose and she found she had to choke down an inappropriate giggle. She drew back slightly so that she could look into his eyes; he was gazing at her in shock and wonderment, and with an unsteady breath he whispered "Oh, _Christine_..."

A crash sounded from off-stage; it was the cue for Passarino's arrival in the character of his master. Christine lowered her hand so that Erik could take it, hurrying her away to hide. Unfortunately, as she moved one of the bangles on her wrist snagged on the material of the Don Juan cloak. She fought to free herself, desperately trying not to tear the fabric, but it was no good; the cloak ripped and her struggles dragged the hood backwards and away from Erik's face.

Christine froze.

The Phantom stood there, centre stage, gazing around him and blinking like a nocturnal creature making its first venture into the sun. Someone in the flies had the bright idea of turning the spotlight that had beamed all evening directly into Box Five so that it shone instead upon the box's erstwhile occupant. The glare bounced from Erik's mask as he turned, slowly, towards the audience.

"It's him – the Phantom!" The cry came from nearby, but Christine couldn't tell exactly where. In the stalls, someone screamed, a high-pitched shriek of terror, and all hell broke loose.

The men who had been standing silently around the stage moved forwards almost as one, mounting the stairs to surround Erik, and Christine too by default. Coming back to himself and recognising the danger, he turned this way and that, moving towards first one of his opponents and then another, the rope Christine recalled from the cemetery appearing as if by magic in his hand. Almost as though they had cornered a rabid dog, none of the men seemed to wish to approach him too closely; instinctively, she found herself moving in front of him, knowing that they would not hurt her, and she was right for they stayed back, the merest snarl from Erik enough to stop any attempt in its tracks. It almost seemed as though the two of them were once more the centre of the universe, with everything else happening in a strange blur around them, but it was a poor parody of the emotional connection she had felt earlier. Outside all was chaos. From their box, the managers were shouting, Firmin leaning almost all the way out in an effort to see what was happening, his wife apparently having palpitations that Andre was trying to calm. Meg called to Christine from the wings, beckoning to her desperately, Madame Giry a shadowy figure behind her. Someone was yelling that the police should be called. There was no sign of Raoul.

Amid the confusion, over the screams and running feet, somehow Christine heard her name.

From the orchestra pit she caught a flash of light glancing off a metallic object as though the midday sun was glinting from a noblewoman's jewellery. Before she could even move there was the loudest bang she had ever heard, and she felt something whistle past her ear, the heat it carried with it nearly searing her cheek; temporarily deafened, she turned towards the sound and finally saw Raoul, his mouth moving soundlessly in a shout. She had not realised how close Erik was until he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him; the last sight she had before he kicked the stage floor, hard, and they were suddenly falling was that of her fiancé, and he was staring at her in horror with a smoking pistol in his hand.


	32. The Road To Hell

**Author's Note:**

Chapter title this week comes from Chris Rea.

* * *

><p><strong>THE ROAD TO HELL<strong>

She was blind.

The darkness surrounding her was so complete that for a long moment Christine had no idea where she was. She reached out for Erik, but he had moved away after setting her back on her feet when they landed; everything had happened so fast that she could not even guess at how far they had travelled. Were they still beneath the stage, in some secret chamber he had constructed, or had that trapdoor led further into his subterranean kingdom?

"Erik?" she called softly, hoping that he had not left her. "Erik, where are you?"

His hand found hers unerringly in the blackness. "Not another word," he said, "Just follow me."

Christine fought down a hysterical laugh, for what choice did she have in the matter? She allowed him to lead her, expecting to have to constantly avoid obstacles or trip over her own feet, but he somehow knew exactly where he was going. Perhaps all those years in a twilight world had given him the ability to see in the dark. His breathing was loud and laboured in the silence; though she could tell he was fighting to control it. Before long the pace he set began to slow and by the time they had traversed a winding staircase down which they seemed to Christine to be descending into the bowels of the earth, he was forced to stop. She rested her free hand on his forearm and opened her mouth to ask him if he was all right, but before she could speak a long finger pressed lightly against her lips in wordless command.

The journey seemed to take hours, and his hand grew icier than ever in hers. Eventually she could hear the lapping of water against stone and realised that they must have reached the lake; the strange luminescence produced by the rock of the cavern was a relief after so long in darkness. When Erik lit the lamp on the bow of the gondola Christine had to cover her eyes against the sudden flare of brightness before the flame settled behind the glass. He straightened with difficulty, suppressing a grunt of pain, and held out his hand to her, assisting her into the boat. Again she tried to speak as he took up the pole and pushed off from the little jetty, but one glance at the determination etched into the visible side of his face stilled her tongue.

The strange, hollow hush of the cellars enveloped them during their trip across the lake. Unlike her previous experiences, this time the eerie light made Christine shudder, shadows from the lantern flying across the water and the cavern roof like malevolent spirits dancing just out of reach. She watched Erik anxiously; it was clear that each stroke he made with the pole was taking more and more effort and his hands were shaking terribly. When at last the boat bumped against the shore before his home she jumped out, not caring that her skirts and boots became soaked as she sloshed through the chilly water, and took his arm, drawing him into the house.

It took several frustrated moments for her to find the gas lamps and turn them up, casting a warm yellow glow over the hallway. Erik leaned against the wall, evidently trying to compose himself; once they could see each other, however, his eyes went wide and he stood up far too quickly, taking two steps towards her and gesturing to the blood which she now realised stained the front of her dress.

"Dear God, why did you not say something?" he cried, horrified, his hands hovering as if he wanted to touch her, to search frantically for injuries, but didn't quite dare. "Where are you hurt?"

"I'm not hurt, Erik," Christine told him, a lump forming in her throat. "It's not my blood."

He stared at her, uncomprehending. "Then whose - ?"

She closed the gap between them and began to lift the cloak he wore, struggling with its voluminous folds. He fought her briefly, startled by this apparent attack upon his privacy, before she found the suit jacket underneath and pulled it aside to reveal the spreading patch of crimson across the left shoulder of his shirt. Christine felt her gorge rise, but she choked it back down; he needed her to be strong, she could not afford to go to pieces now.

To her surprise, Erik looked at the blood almost dispassionately, as if it were not his wound, not his shoulder. "Ah," he said. "That certainly explains a few things."

Tears started in Christine's eyes. "Is that all you can say?" she asked hoarsely. "You could have been killed – Raoul _shot_ you!" Even as she said the words she still could not believe it; despite his threats to be rid of the Phantom, she had never thought he would actually shoot a man in cold blood. That wasn't the Raoul she knew.

"And his skill with a pistol is as bad as I expected. The fool. He should have aimed for my head. " Very slowly, Erik turned to meet her gaze with an unfocussed one of his own. "I'm sorry, Christine."

"Sorry? Whatever for? Erik - "

"I failed you. I gave you my word that I would stay away and thanks to my own vanity you could have been harmed as well." Once again, Erik reached out a trembling hand, his fingers stopping just shy of her cheek as if to wipe away the tears that threatened to fall. "If you had taken that bullet I think I would have died. Christine - "

"It doesn't matter now." She swallowed against that lump, which seemed to be growing with every passing second. "We have to get you somewhere more comfortable, and then I will fetch help. Where is your room?"

He pointed vaguely to a door further down the hallway, next to the bedroom in which she had spent her first night underground. How long ago it seemed! That evening, the gala and everything which followed seemed a world away, as though it had happened to someone else. Erik tried to take a step, but he stumbled, a hand flying out to support himself on the table by the front door; the lamp which stood there wobbled and toppled over with a crash, its glass cover shattering against the flagstones. Quickly, Christine caught him before he could follow it and slipped her neck beneath his good shoulder, gripping him tightly around the waist. He tensed at her close proximity and she felt her cheeks burn; she had never been so close to a man until tonight, not even Raoul. Erik was heavier than she expected and as he leaned on her they both almost went down under his weight.

Somehow, she managed to remain standing and get him into the darkened room, sitting him down on the enormous bed. Hastily, her own hands shaking now, she lit the candles in the branched holder on the table that stood to one side; in their light the wounded Phantom looked terrible, his unmasked features white and haggard. There were lines around his eyes and mouth that she had never seen before, and he suddenly appeared to be much older.

Christine removed the Don Juan cloak, her hands clumsy in her haste, throwing it over the nearby armchair. It was quickly joined by his jacket and waistcoat, her heart clenching at the cry he bit back despite her attempts to be gentle. Once she was down to just his shirt the injury looked much worse. Her stomach lurched as she beheld his scarlet-soaked sleeve and the rivulets of blood which had run down his arm and dried in rusty stains in the palm of his hand. The most blood she had ever seen in her life was when Giselle in the chorus had a nose-bleed; the room span around her just as it had then and she became aware that she was trembling from head to foot.

What was she supposed to do now? She was no nurse; the most she had ever been forced to deal with in her young life was a torn nail or blistered feet from Madame Giry's punishing practise sessions. She found herself staring blankly around the room, almost hoping that someone would appear and tell her the next line, give her a cue, a direction to tell her how to act.

In spite of his pain, Erik seemed to understand the reason for her hesitation. "The important thing is to... to stop the bleeding," he said faintly, gesturing towards the carved wooden chest at the foot of the bed.

Grateful for the assistance, Christine threw it open to find sheets and blankets neatly folded inside. Taking one of the former, she swiftly tore it into uneven strips, folding the largest under Erik's faltering instruction to form a pad which she pressed to the wound with as much force as she dared. Loath to hurt him further, she bound it up with her improvised bandages; he bit down hard on his lip, his breath coming fast through what there was of his nose, but made no other sound. When she was done, she finally allowed him to lie back against the pillows, pulling a blanket over his chest.

"Are you sure you will be all right alone?" she asked.

His eyes had slid shut, and he did not open them when he nodded. "Take the lamp... and be careful. They have... seen me now... they may turn... nasty." His voice faded, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. "Let no one... no one but Antoinette..."

"Shush, I understand." Christine squeezed his hand. Always cold, his fingers felt now like those of a corpse. How much blood had he lost? How much more could he stand to lose? "I'll be back as soon as I can," she promised, and reluctantly left him, hurrying back to the gondola, which waited with its lantern like a beacon in the shadows, bobbing gently in the water.

Christine had never so much as rowed a boat on the river, but she had no choice now. It would take too long to skirt around the shore of the lake as she had done before. As she stepped into the little craft, feeling it tip terrifyingly under her, and took up the pole, she hoped it would be as easy as Erik made it look.

Sending out a prayer to her father to keep her safe, she determinedly pushed off into the inky blackness of Lake Averne.


	33. The Road To Hell Part Two

**THE ROAD TO HELL **

**(PART TWO)**

Even amidst the commotion, the shot was loud.

Meg had never heard a real gun fired, not from such close quarters, and compared with the prop pistols used in the theatre it was deafening. She watched, helplessly, as the bullet flew across the stage; it seemed so incredibly slow, time running on the wrong speed, as it almost hit Christine, brushing through her hair. Behind her, in the act of reaching for one of the vicomte's men who had strayed too close, his Punjab lasso in his hand, the Phantom stiffened, his eyes flickering momentarily in shock before he turned and grabbed Christine to him, pressing her cheek against his chest. Before Meg's astonished eyes a trapdoor that had most certainly not been there before opened in the stage and the two of them vanished in a swirl of black.

"Christine!" Raoul was there, in the orchestra pit. He started forwards, but Christine was gone; whirling back to the marksman who Meg realised must have been there among the musicians all along, he snatched the revolver from the hapless youth's hand. "You _fool_! You might have hit Mademoiselle Daae! I thought I told you to shoot only when the right moment came?"

"I'm sorry, Monsieur le Vicomte!" the poor man cried, quailing before Raoul's anger. "But how was I to know which moment was the right one?"

Disgusted, the vicomte tossed the gun to one side. As the curtain belatedly fell, blocking out the sight of the audience buzzing like an overturned beehive, he hoisted himself up onto the stage, crossing to the spot from which the Phantom and Christine had disappeared. It was surrounded by some of the more senior stagehands, the managers hovering on the fringes and peering over their shoulders. Beyond them, the rest of the company stood around aimlessly in groups of two or three; the ballerinas had gathered together and were chattering loudly, peering up with exaggerated squeals of fear into the flies as though the Opera Ghost might suddenly return and snatch them away, too. Meg looked for her mother, but all she could see was a cane lying on the boards; of Madame Giry there was no sign.

"Well?" Raoul asked. "Can we get down there?"

Pierre, the head scenery-shifter, glanced up from his examination of the stage. "I can't find any trace of an opening, Monsieur; it's as if there was never a door here at all!"

"How is that possible?"

"It must be a mechanism of the Ghost's own design." Pierre shrugged. "I've no idea how it works, or where it leads."

"Does it matter?" Andre enquired tremulously. "The Phantom has what he wanted – perhaps now he'll leave us alone!"

The vicomte rounded on him, forcing the nervous manager to take a pace backwards. "So you think the loss of Mademoiselle Daae a worthy sacrifice for your peace of mind, do you?" he demanded. "Just to make life easier for yourself, you would leave her with _him_? That maniac has already killed one person in this theatre – who is to say that he won't harm her now he has her in his clutches? And where are La Carlotta and Signor Piangi? Has the Phantom taken them, too?"

"He'd never be able to carry Carlotta off," one of the men muttered with a grin, jabbing his fellow in the ribs with his elbow. He sobered immediately when Raoul shot him a glare.

Firmin stepped between his partner and de Chagny, puffing up like a red-faced peacock. "Now look here, Monsieur," he blustered, "Don't forget that this whole charade was your idea. You promised us that the Phantom would be dealt with, and now here we are with empty hands, _three_ missing singers and the prospect of having to refund an entire house – again! The queues at the box office have already begun – we will be ruined, sir, _ruined_!"

"You agreed to the plan – both of you!" Raoul countered. "You wanted the Phantom caught!"

"Of course! But at the end of the show, Monsieur, at the _end_! After the curtain fell! Just think of the revenue - "

"I don't have time for this." The vicomte walked away, but before he had taken two strides he seemed to change his mind and turned back to the managers. "May I remind you, Messieurs, whose patronage it was that kept this theatre in business despite your appalling mismanagement? Without the de Chagny name, not to mention our sizeable cheques, you would have been ruined months ago, _despite_ the Phantom!"

Andre's mouth fell open.

"Monsieur le Vicomte!" Firmin protested, but Raoul ignored him.

"Someone was hit by that bullet," Pierre announced, cutting across the argument. "There's blood on the boards."

"Dear God." All the colour drained from Raoul's face and he bent down beside the stagehand to see for himself. There was a long pause, and then he said sharply, "Someone get an axe. We'll cut our way through."

The managers squawked at the prospect of yet more damage to the building but no one took any notice. Pierre and one of the firemen left to fetch the requested tool as Remy, Firmin's secretary, ran out from the wings, crying desperately that the crowd in the foyer was becoming increasingly ugly and wanting to know whether he should call the police before someone was hurt. Andre and Firmin together turned their anger on the unfortunate young man, who had spent the performance in his office and consequently had no idea what was going on. As Firmin stalked into the wings declaring that, since two of the four acts had been played out when the opera came abruptly to an end, no one would be refunded more than half their entrance fee, Raoul was left momentarily alone and Meg took the opportunity to run quickly to his side.

"Monsieur le Vicomte?" she hissed in his ear.

He glanced up in surprise. "Mademoiselle Giry! What - ?"

Meg put a finger to her lips. "If you come with me, I may be able to take you to Christine. But we must be quick!"

"_You_ can? But - " Raoul stared at her, bewildered. "Do you know where they are?"

"Not exactly, no, but I think I know how to get down into the cellars. Follow me!" Boldly, she caught hold of his hand; startled, he allowed her to drag him to his feet and across the stage, behind the curtain and flats which made up the _Don Juan_ set and through the wings, heading for the passages beyond. One or two members of the cast saw them and shouted ribald comments about the fickleness of love and how one ballerina was much like another; Meg paid them no heed, intent on reaching Christine's dressing room before her mother could vanish below.

"Mademoiselle Giry – Meg – where are we going?" Raoul asked, having to half-walk, half-run to keep in time with her pace. "Meg, _please_, tell me - "

"The Phantom has passageways all over the building; that's how he comes and goes as he pleases without being seen. Christine told me that the Angel of Music was teaching her in her dressing room, that she heard his voice there," Meg said, not slowing for even a moment. Past the dancers' communal space, and the chorus rooms; on the left was Piangi's, and next to that Carlotta's chamber, the biggest in the building, the door standing open to reveal a half-open wardrobe with empty hangers and a dressing table cleared of bottles and potions. It seemed that, whatever the reason for her sudden departure, the diva had gone for good. Meg found it hard to feel sorry. "I saw him myself, on the night of the masquerade: I saw him there, in the mirror."

"He was behind you, hiding in the room? The blackguard! Are there no lengths to which he will not go?"

Meg shook her head impatiently. "No, I saw him _in_ the mirror. I don't know how, but he was watching me through the glass. He held my gaze for a moment before he just vanished, and there was my own reflection looking back at me."

"You think this man is a magician?" Raoul did not sound particularly convinced.

"I _know_ he is. But it wasn't magic that helped him to take Christine away after the gala." Meg glanced over her shoulder to see that his expression matched his sceptical tone. She broke into a run, forcing him to increase his own pace. Ahead of them the door of Christine's room was slightly ajar, a candle flame flickering within; Meg pushed it fully open, ready to rush inside.

She was brought up short on the threshold, Raoul running right into her back, when she saw her mother standing in front of the very mirror they had just been discussing, the light blossoming and becoming stronger, silhouetting Madame Giry's dark figure against the glass. Raoul tried to move forwards, but Meg lifted a hand, holding him back, watching in fascination as the mirror seemed to suddenly and impossibly rise an inch or two into the air. Before their eyes it began to turn, pivoting around to reveal a brickwork tunnel beyond, illuminated by the lantern held by a shadowy form which stood within. A hand shot out, a hand whose wrist was encircled by bright painted bangles; it took hold of Madame Giry's sleeve, and the two of them moved further into the tunnel as the mirror swung slowly shut. For a moment, by some clever trick of the light, they could be seen clearly through the glass as had the Phantom on New Year's Eve, and Meg recognised the small figure with the lantern. Her dress was dirty and dishevelled, her white face drawn with anxiety, but she was alive.

"Christine!" Raoul exclaimed, all but shoving Meg aside in his haste as he leapt towards the mirror. He was too late; the light faded and the two women were gone, leaving nothing but reflections to mock those left behind. Frustrated, he slammed a hand against the glass, and swore vehemently. "Why did you not let me go to her?" he demanded.

"Because we don't know what has happened," Meg said calmly, moving the stool from Christine's dressing table in front of the mirror and climbing onto it, taking the candle with her. "We could have made things worse by rushing in."

Raoul watched her, his eyes wide and frantic, as she ran her hand across the gilded frame. "What are you doing?"

"I'm looking for the way through," she told him, her fingers moving delicately over the moulding. "There must be a way to open it from this side."

Behind her she could hear him pacing back and forth in frustration as she worked methodically around the mirror; every so often his reflection, ghostly in the dim light, passed across its surface. For someone used to having servants jump to his every command, the waiting must have been torture. Eventually, he stopped, one hand tangled in his hair. "This delay is insane!" he exclaimed. "Could we not just smash the glass?"

"Monsieur le Vicomte, you must learn something about stealth," said Meg, her heart leaping as she felt something in the frame give beneath her touch. "To catch a Phantom, one must think like a Phantom."

With a faint grating sound, the mirror began to move again, lifting as she could now see on almost invisible tracks and moving away from the wall. She stood well back, Raoul at her side, as it turned like one of the revolving doors which guarded the entrances to the most exclusive hotels, scattering shards of light from her candle about the room. Their images in the glass distorted as if caught in a fairground mirror, and then, with a blast of cold air and the faint smell of water, the passage stretched before them.

"Open Sesame!" Meg smiled triumphantly and waved a hand towards the tunnel. "Shall we?"


	34. End Of The Line

**END OF THE LINE**

"Oh, this is a nightmare, a nightmare!"

Andre turned away from the sight of the grand foyer full of angry patrons all demanding their money back, unable to watch any longer. The firemen who had been drafted in to assist with the capture of the Phantom were attempting to keep order, forming a line which prevented anyone from getting close to the box office, but they were buckling under the press of people and something would have to be done soon in order to prevent a riot. Normally those who attended performances at the Populaire were sedate, cultured people, or the kind who came not for the music but to see and be seen; the tension in the air and the emotions running high had had an effect on more than just the cast, that much was obvious.

"Get me the Chief Commissioner of Police on the telephone," Andre told Remy, who was hovering at his elbow, in an undertone. "Perhaps he can stop them tearing the place apart."

The secretary nodded, and hurried off; Andre followed at a slower pace, still unable to believe the madness that had descended on the theatre that evening. He had wanted to put a stop to the Phantom's tricks and threats, yes, and the vicomte's plan seemed like a good idea at the time, but where had it left them? In an even bigger mess than they had been before! In his heart of hearts, Andre knew that he was not cut out for this sort of thing; he had agreed to take on the Opera only after a great deal of persuasion from Firmin and his cousin, a junior minister of the Arts. It seemed like a good investment, as the Populaire had been riding high for many years – after such a triumph as the previous season's, when Carlotta brought the house down as Marguerite in _Faust_, he believed he could not lose. The truth, however, was hard to swallow: in taking over the management they were offered a deal with the Devil, and not accepting had brought disaster upon the whole company. Andre realised now that the Opera's success had been due to Phantom, not to Lefevre or any of the men who came before him. In disregarding his commands, ignoring his obvious expertise, they floundered like the amateurs they were, as Piangi had recognised on the very morning of their arrival.

How could they go on? Christine Daae was gone, spirited below and out of reach. The dressing rooms of La Carlotta and the Signor had been checked, and one of the runners found a letter addressed to the managers in which the diva announced her intention to return to Italy immediately. She was breaking the terms of her contract, but she felt sure that such behaviour would be overlooked given the trials she had been forced to suffer over the past year. Added in a hasty postscript was a declaration that she would make sure that their names were muddied forever in the world of opera, that everyone would be aware of their ineptitude so that they might never again be given such a great responsibility as they were quite obviously unable to cope; she wished them well of their 'skinny, wide-eyed little tart' and expected her outstanding salary to be paid by the end of the month. It was quite clear that she would never again be darkening their door.

Andre felt a headache coming on. He rubbed his temples furiously as he passed the entrance to the Royal Circle, but stopped as the sound of breaking wood assaulted his ears. Opening the door, he walked to the front of the balcony to see that the _Don Juan_ set had been pushed aside and Pierre and two of the other stagehands were attacking the boards with axes and saws. His heart nearly leapt out of his mouth at the sight of the damage they had already wreaked and he waved his arms desperately, trying to attract their attention.

"Good God, man, what are you doing?" he demanded, his voice emerging two octaves higher than he intended. "Stop! Stop it at once!"

They halted in their work, and looked up in surprise. "It's the vicomte's orders, Monsieur," Pierre said, face creasing in confusion. "He wanted us to - "

Andre remembered the command being given, moments before he chased Firmin and Remy from the stage; there had been no time to countermand it. "Where is the vicomte?"

One of the men shrugged. Pierre glanced at the other, who shook his head. "Last time we saw him, he was with Little Meg," Pierre replied. "Neither of 'em has been back here. Shall we carry on, sir? The Phantom - "

"I don't give a damn about the Phantom!" It was a petulant outburst, but Andre didn't care. "All I've heard since I first arrived in this godforsaken place is that man's name. Everything has been the fault of the Phantom! Well, I will tell you now that your precious Opera Ghost has signed this theatre's death warrant. Come tomorrow you'll all be out of a job; the Populaire can continue no longer!"

The men stared at each other in astonishment. Pierre put down his axe and moved to the front of the stage, where he could clearly see the quivering manager.

"Allow me to tell you something, Monsieur," he said, his voice carrying across the empty auditorium, "When the management cooperated with the Phantom, we played to packed houses every night. Say what you will about his methods, no one can deny that he knows opera and he always wanted us to be the best. Whenever he made a suggestion, the managers acted upon it and they were never wrong to do so. They may have been a little frightened of him, but he made them rich. He would have done the same for you, too, if you'd listened to him."

"How dare you - " Andre began, but the other two stagehands made noises of agreement.

"If anyone's brought disaster upon this theatre, Monsieur, it's you," Pierre added. He folded his arms, steadily meeting Andre's gaze. "It's only since you arrived that things began to go wrong. Madame Giry warned you!"

"Madame Giry is a madwoman in the Phantom's pay. There is no place for her here any longer; neither will I accept the return of her daughter or Mademoiselle Daae to their positions. And you may all leave now; you will find your cards waiting for you in the office tomorrow morning." Andre's hands clenched into fists and his fragile self-control snapped as they just stood there looking at him. "Well, what are you waiting for? Go on! _Get out_! And take everyone else with you!"

Wordlessly, the three men put aside their tools and walked from the stage, leaving the big hole in the boards behind them. Andre turned and fled the auditorium, heading upstairs to the office and hopefully sanity. To his surprise the door was ajar; he entered the room to find the safe wide open and a Gladstone bag on the desk, Firmin transferring neat bundles of francs from one to the other. He glanced up, startled by the sudden appearance of his partner, and froze.

Andre stood on the threshold for a long moment, speechless at the sight before his eyes. Firmin was wearing his coat and hat, and it was quite clear where his intentions lay. If he looked out of the window Andre was sure that he would see a hansom cab waiting on the Rue Scribe.

"When were you going to tell me?" he asked, somehow managing to keep his tone level. "Should I have expected a postcard from America, or Australia perhaps? The latter would be appropriate; the British have been sending their criminals south for generations."

"Now, Gilles, there's no need for that," Firmin said, attempting a laugh. He snapped the bag shut, leaving the safe empty but for a handful of bills and that dreadful memorandum book with its additions in red ink. Andre never wished to see the thing again. "I'm only trying to salvage something from this debacle."

"Something for _you_, I see," Andre replied bitterly. "What of everyone who depends upon this building? Are we to turn them off without a sou?"

"Let the Phantom pay them," his partner retorted. "He has more than enough to spare from the thousands he has been stealing from us. Good luck, my dear fellow. Maybe our paths will cross again at some point." Hefting the bag, Firmin rounded the desk, heading for the door. Andre stepped back, blocking his way. He pointed to the bag.

"Half of that is mine, I believe. We had an agreement."

Slowly, Firmin reached into his coat and withdrew a sheaf of papers. He held them up so that Andre could clearly see his own signature at the foot of the last page, and carefully ripped them down the middle before tearing them twice more and scattering the pieces on the floor. "Our partnership is dissolved," he said. "I suggest you leave too before those animals downstairs find their way here and rend you limb from limb. They are seeking someone to blame, and I do not intend it to be me!"

"You bastard." Andre glared at his erstwhile friend. "How can you do this to me after everything we've been through?"

Firmin shrugged. "Self-preservation. I have a family to think of."

"And I am expendable, I suppose."

"It's nothing personal, old man. The game is up; the Comte de Chagny has withdrawn his patronage – you will find the note on the desk there. I'm not sticking around to watch the ship go down." Resting a companionable hand on Andre's shoulder, Firmin gently but forcefully moved him aside. Andre had no more fight left and allowed him to brush past without even a half-hearted attempt to stop him. At the end of the landing, his traitorous 'partner' tipped his hat before vanishing into the shadows of the stairwell.

The connecting door by the fireplace opened and Remy appeared. Andre did not even turn to look at the young man as he approached; no doubt Remy would notice the empty safe, but he did not feel equal to explaining. The secretary cleared his throat.

"Monsieur Andre? I have your telephone call waiting."

Suddenly, Andre found he did not care a jot for the people in the foyer. They could more than afford the loss of one evening's ticket price; most of them were able to buy the theatre outright ten times over. "Cancel it," he snapped, stalking over to the desk and rummaging in the drawer for the half-measure of brandy Firmin had left there. Not even bothering with a glass, he took a long swig from the bottle. "Get me the editor of _L'Epoque_ instead. And the Minister of Arts."

Remy looked bewildered. "Monsieur?"

Andre slammed the brandy bottle down, slopping some over the blotter. "The management of the Opera Populaire is going up for sale, with immediate effect."


	35. Desperate Measures

**DESPERATE MEASURES**

"Oh, dear God."

Madame Giry covered her mouth with her hand, stifling the gasp which escaped her as she beheld the wounded Phantom. Christine had prepared her for the sight on their journey back to the house, but still the blood which soaked the entire left shoulder and sleeve of his shirt could not fail to shock her. There was so much of it, far, far more than on the night they had first met; then his injuries had been within her power to patch up, but this... this was something else altogether. He was breathing fitfully, his face so white that from a distance it was impossible to distinguish flesh from porcelain.

"I didn't know how to help him," Christine said from behind, her voice high and strained. "I didn't want to leave him alone, but - "

Antoinette turned slightly and reached for the worried girl's hand, squeezing it tightly. "You made the right decision," she told her.

"How could they do this to him, Madame? How _could_ they? Is he not a man like them?"

"They were angry and scared. We all make bad choices under such circumstances," Antoinette said. "There was fault on both sides; no one will emerge from tonight's events with any triumph."

Christine looked at the floor, and muttered something which sounded like "I shall never forgive Raoul for this." Before Madame Giry could correct her assumption, she raised her head once more and fixed the ballet mistress with a surprisingly steady gaze. "What should we do now, Madame?"

Glancing once more towards the bed, Antoinette felt dread settle in the pit of her stomach. If Erik needed professional attention, and it appeared even from where she stood now that such a situation would be more likely than not, she had no idea how such assistance was to be obtained. No doctor with any care for his reputation would treat a man who lived alone and in secret five stories below the opera house; alarm bells would immediately start to ring and they would all be handed over to the police in the blink of an eye, if the managers had not already summoned the authorities. She cursed them for a pair of fools. If only they had taken her advice right at the start, none of them would be in such a mess!

The man on the bed coughed and stirred, shaking her out of her thoughts. Sending Christine to the bathroom for bandages and iodine, Antoinette sat down beside Erik, taking his hand. For a moment he did not move, but then she felt a slight pressure against her fingers as he attempted to return the gesture. To find him grown so weak in such a short time appalled her. "Oh, Erik, what have they done to you?" she whispered, brushing his hair back from his forehead. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch; the atmosphere in the cellars could only be doing him more harm than good.

"Nothing... that I didn't... deserve, Annie." His reply was scarcely more than a breath, but his eyes opened a fraction and the left side of his mouth quirked in a rueful smile. "...you were right... my opera was... doomed from the start."

"I take no pleasure in my predictions coming true."

"You... surprise me. I thought that... you would delight in knowing better... than me." With a low chuckle, Erik shifted his unfocussed gaze away from her face, into the shadows beyond the pool of light which surrounded the bed. "Is Christine...?"

"She is here," Madame Giry assured him, starting to rise. "Do you want me to - ?"

He shook his head, and with an effort raised his good arm to point towards the table at the side of the bed. "Would you pass me that... little Japanned box? The one... the one with the gilt decorations."

Intrigued, she did as he asked, and helped him to sit up slightly when he requested it. Erik's visible features contorted in pain, but he made no sound. He became, though, even paler than before, if such a thing were possible. Settling the box in his lap, he flicked open the lid, revealing a jumble of odds and ends. Antoinette did not think she had ever before seen him wear the expression which now swept across his face; as he lifted the trinkets one by one from the box he looked almost wistful, a tear forming in the one eye she could see. "These are hers," he said in a fading voice, laying out a tortoiseshell comb, a single earring, the ribbon from a dancer's shoe. "I collected... them; picked them up when she...when she lost or... discarded them. They are my... my treasures."

Antoinette felt her throat constrict at the image of a lonely man keeping the detritus of his protégée's life, just to feel close to her. If only she had known! At the bottom of the box, beneath a carefully-folded linen handkerchief with the initials CD embroidered in one corner, was a delicate gold band set with six multifaceted diamonds. She recognised it immediately as the engagement ring Christine had been wearing around her neck, the one Erik so publicly stole the night of the masquerade. Holding it between finger and thumb, he stared at it for a long time before replacing it and all the other bits and pieces, closing the lid of the box.

"Take it," he said, pressing it into her hands. He was breathing more heavily now, and she knew that they would have to act quickly if they were to save him. "Give it... give it to Christine. Tell her... tell her that I release her... from any duty or... loyalty she may feel to her... to her Angel of Music."

"Erik," Antoinette began, but he was determined to finish, holding up a long finger in that commanding manner she knew so well.

"Send her back... to her boy." With a grimace, he sank back against the pillows. "I... I don't want her to see this. I would... rather she remembered... her Angel as he... as he was..." A smile touched his misshapen lips, and he looked at her wonderingly. "Christine is a... is a good girl. She... she kissed me, Annie. She _kissed_ me! No one... no one has ever kissed Erik... before... not even... not even his own mother. Now Erik can die... a happy man..."

"Erik!" She gripped his right hand, and said urgently, "Erik, you are not going to die. You can give this to Christine yourself."

"Oh, Annie." The Phantom's eyes had become slits as the loss of blood took its effect upon him, but he managed a brief laugh, this one lacking any humour. "They... shot me in the shoulder... the bullet is still... still there. Can you... can you think of anyone... even a quack... who would treat... me?"

Madame Giry was silent, and he nodded, eyelids fluttering shut. She thought that he had succumbed to unconsciousness, but before his hand became completely limp in hers she caught some mumbled words which nearly broke her heart.

"...bury me deep, Annie... promise me that... you won't let them... stare at the freak..."

The tears that were welling in her own eyes spilled over; she leaned forwards and pressed a gentle kiss to his mask. "Oh, my dear. If only you had let me be a better friend."

"Madame?"

The voice made her jump. Christine had returned, awkwardly balancing a tray which held, amongst other things, a bowl of water, antiseptic, towels and bandages. It looked almost as though she had brought the entire contents of Erik's bathroom just in case it might be needed, and Antoinette had to stop herself smiling involuntarily at the sight. Wiping at her eyes, she rose to take the tray, setting it down on the chest at the foot of the bed, and then reached for the little Japanned box which lay upon the bedclothes.

"Madame?" The little soprano's gaze was anxious, darting every few seconds towards her wounded maestro. "How is he?"

"He... he needs a doctor, and quickly," Antoinette said, swallowing hard. "I fear that we will not be able to fetch one in time."

"No." Christine clapped a hand over her mouth to cover the wail of anguish which burst forth at the blunt words. "_No_! No, there _must_ be someone - "

Madame Giry held out the box. "Erik asked me to give you this."

"I don't... I don't understand." Christine, looking utterly bewildered, took it, opening the lid. At the sight of the box's contents she collapsed with a cry, knees hitting the opulent Persian rug, her chest heaving with barely-suppressed sobs. She hunched there for some moments, before, gently but firmly, Antoinette took her arm, coaxing her back to her feet and leading her to the armchair which stood by the fireplace. The back was covered with Erik's bloodstained clothes, but Christine appeared not to notice. "My ring," she kept saying, staring at the diamonds, "He returned my ring!"

Antoinette reluctantly left her there, taking up a pair of scissors to cut away Erik's ruined shirt. Beneath Christine's haphazard dressings his shoulder was a mess, an acrid hole marking the bullet's entry point. Carefully she turned him slightly to check his back; there was no exit wound, which meant that the lead shot was indeed embedded somewhere in his flesh. It would have to be removed if he was to escape blood-poisoning, but she was not a surgeon and even had she the necessary tools she doubted she would find the courage to attempt such a procedure. He did not wake as she cleaned the injury, not even when the iodine made contact with damaged nerve-endings, which concerned her even more.

Listening to the constant ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as she worked, she realised that more than an hour had passed since the ignominious end of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Ideas, solutions, chased each other across her mind's eye. It was late; someone could slip from the theatre into the night quite easily and not be observed, as Erik had proved on more than one occasion. Antoinette hoped that she had learned something from him over the years; many were the times she had caused consternation amongst her charges by creeping up unnoticed to break up a gossip session, light on her feet and keeping to the shadows. Perhaps there was a chance after all, if she could make it as far as Montmartre and back in time...

Tying off the last bandage and settling Erik more comfortably in the bed, she straightened, stretching to ease the kink in her back. Christine still sat beside the empty grate, her tangled hair hiding her face. Madame Giry rested a hand lightly on her shoulder and the startled girl glanced up, cheeks streaked with tears.

"He's sending me away, isn't he?" she asked hoarsely. Antoinette nodded and Christine's face set, chin jutting in determination. The ballet mistress had never seen her look so fierce. "I won't go, Madame, I'm not leaving him."

"Christine, maybe it is for the best - "

"Everyone always thinks they know what is best for me!"Christine exclaimed, jumping from the chair, her eyes flashing in anger. "You, Erik, Raoul... none of you ever ask me what _I_ want! Well, I want to stay here, and here I shall stay. If Erik wants me to leave, he will have to throw me out himself!"

Madame Giry was taken aback by the force of her former pupil's words, though she did not show it. Christine had been forced to endure so much over the past few months, and in that time she had grown up. It seemed that she had found fire in her belly, something no one would ever have expected of her. Gone was the hesitant, nervous girl who had come to the opera in the wake of her father's death; a young woman stood before her, spine straight and head held high.

"We have to help him, Madame. We can't just let him die," she said. "I lost Papa, but I can't, I _won't_ lose my Angel like this, not when I have finally realised how much he means to me."

There was a pause, and then Antoinette made a decision. "There is a chance," she told Christine, "a doctor who helped me with an awkward situation a few years ago. He is a man of discretion, and I trust him to keep his own counsel. If I can persuade him to come - "

Christine caught hold of her hand, squeezing it between her own. "Oh, Madame! Do anything, whatever it takes to get him here. Tell him that I will pay him - "

"We will worry about payment later. Now, I will be as quick as I can but the doctor lives in the Rue Feydeau and I may not be able to find a cab. Look after Erik, keep him warm and calm, and if he wakes try and get him to drink something." Antoinette found Erik's waistcoat amongst the discarded clothes and removed the bunch of keys from his watch chain. Even if he had blocked most of the other entrances to his labyrinth she felt sure that the gate on the Rue Scribe would still be accessible, for how else would he have managed to obtain those necessities which had kept him alive for the last six months? "Lock the door behind me and do not answer it to anyone, do you understand?"

Christine nodded. "You can trust me. I - " She broke off abruptly, listening intently for a moment.

"Whatever is it, child?" Antoinette asked, frowning.

The little soprano looked at her, and the fear had returned to her face. "I heard the front door," she said. "There is someone else down here with us."


	36. Down The Rabbit Hole

**DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE**

"I don't believe it... did you know this was here?"

Raoul raised the lantern, and Meg stifled a gasp. After they entered the tunnel that led from Christine's dressing room the mirror had suddenly turned, as if propelled by a counter-weight, to close behind them, trapping them on the wrong side of the glass. Finding a lamp and matches conveniently hidden in a niche (Erik, it seemed, was nothing if not prepared) they discarded the candle and with more than a little trepidation made their way into the depths of the theatre. The journey seemed to take forever; twists and turns, ramps and stairs all served to confuse and disorientate. Belatedly Meg recalled Joseph Buquet's warnings and insisted that they keep their hands at the level of their eyes. Raoul protested, but when she mentioned the Punjab lasso he glanced at the bandage which still bound his right wrist and nodded grimly. He insisted upon taking the both the light and the lead, and when Meg rested her free hand on his arm every so often just to remind him that she was still following he did not pull away. They traipsed through all manner of dirty, dusty corridors, ducking their heads at times to pass through openings which were barely large enough for a man bent double, having to stop abruptly as the ground almost gave way beneath their feet, until at length they were forced to come to a halt: their path was blocked by a huge and impossible stretch of water.

"It's a lake!" Meg exclaimed in astonishment. "An underground lake!"

The vicomte stared ahead of him in astonishment. "It's absolutely incredible."

"I have heard rumours about it, but I never imagined..." She trailed off and they stood in silence for a few moments, gazing out across the still, inky black water. Somehow, the light from the lamp was magnified, settling an eerie green glow over the cavern in which they found themselves. When Meg spoke again she realised that she could hear a faint echo of her words bounced back to her. "That must be where he lives... there, beyond the lake."

"I don't understand," Raoul said, "Why would anyone choose to live in such a place, so far below the earth?"

Meg felt an unaccountable sadness fill her heart. "Perhaps because they _had_ no choice, but were forced to hide. I can see no other reason to exist in such isolation. How horrible to be driven so far away from any human contact..."

There was a long pause. She heard her companion shuffle uncomfortably for a few moments before his footsteps rang upon the rock and she realised he had moved closer to the water, holding the lantern high. "It looks deep," he reported, glancing back towards her. "Can you swim?"

Meg shook her head. Having lived in Paris all her life there had never been a reason for her to learn. Just the thought of being pulled under the surface, of that dark water closing over her head and cutting off her air made her shiver more than the cool breeze that blew through the cavern. She rubbed her arms, wishing that she'd thought to grab the shawl which was a part of her gypsy costume from where she'd left it on Don Juan's bed.

"We'll have to find a way round," Raoul muttered. "It could take hours; there's no way of telling how wide this lake is."

"Maman has been here many times," Meg said, joining him at the water's edge. "She's never gone for more than a couple of hours, and if the journey was too difficult she wouldn't attempt it during the day."

"It's a shame we can't ask her. We have no idea whether she and Christine even came this way; perhaps we missed a turning somewhere and are miles off course!" The vicomte ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "So much time has been wasted. I can't bear to think of Christine left in the clutches of that man for so long!"

"No harm can come to her as long as she is with my mother," she told him firmly. "Maman will look after her."

He gave her a sidelong glance. "I wish I could share your confidence."

Privately, Meg did not believe that Erik would hurt Christine, not deliberately at least. He had never done so before; even when he had the opportunity, on the night of _Il Muto_, the chandelier ended its descent almost perfectly before Christine's feet as though its landing had been carefully calculated. Terrible as it was, it had seemed more like a warning than any serious attempt to harm her. And when the Phantom grabbed her friend back there on the stage, holding her to him, the action appeared more protective than threatening. Meg shook her head sharply. The whole situation was a muddle, a great big tangled ball of string, and right now she couldn't find the end that would unravel it.

Raoul was pacing along the shore, the lamplight bobbing with his long strides. Not wishing to be left in that strange murky glow which seemed to hang in the air, Meg followed, scurrying to keep up. They had not gone far when something caught her eye as the beam from the lantern passed over the rock beyond them. In the uneven wall was a dark hole which she realised as they approached was the entrance to a smaller cave; the light caught on something, made it gleam momentarily, and she gestured to Raoul to bring the lamp closer. When he did, she was able to see that it was reflecting from the rowlocks of a small wooden boat. It had been tucked away there, from the prying eyes of any visitors, for all the world as though the cave were a boathouse on the river. The oars were lying in the bottom, and Raoul quickly discovered that both they and the boat appeared to be sound and watertight.

"Have you ever considered becoming a detective, Meg?" he asked when she gave him another triumphant grin, helping him to push the boat from its hiding place. He handed her gallantly into the bows and then stepped aboard himself, taking up the oars. "You would be an asset to the Sûreté."

Meg settled herself, holding the lantern out before them. "I don't think they have a ballet chorus," she said as they pulled out onto the lake and headed into the darkness.

* * *

><p>It was a strange sensation, travelling along in almost complete silence; the only sound their breathing and the steady splash of the oars in the water. Meg wondered if Erik had brought Christine this way that first night. Had it seemed magical to her, or merely strange and disconcerting? Christine had told her very little about her initial encounter with her Angel of Music, almost as if she could not really remember what had happened. Were there more of the Phantom's tricks in store for them? Belatedly, she remembered her promise to her mother than she would never approach Erik and felt a little trepidation. OG would not be pleased to find that he had trespassers in his kingdom.<p>

The boat passed under what almost appeared to be a low gateway in the rock; Meg ducked instinctively even though there was probably more than enough room above her head. They emerged into a smaller cavern, this one lit by branches of wrought iron, the intricate metalwork holding candles which had burned down low, spent wax guttering all over their delicate stems. Before them was a jetty carved out of the rock, and moored at it, shifting on the swell created by their approach, was a black gondola very much like the one she had once seen in the prop store in the third cellar above. However, while the discarded boat upstairs was shabby and peeling, this one had been given a recent coat of paint and its gilding was pristine. The interior was lined with brilliantly patterned and well-stuffed silk cushions, across which lay a long wooden pole. Meg recalled the pictures in a book her mother owned of the gondoliers in Venice, propelling their craft along the canals with just such an instrument.

"I think we may have found the Phantom's lair," she said softly as their little boat bumped against the shore.

Raoul nodded and jumped out, turning back to assist her. By the time he had secured the craft, Meg was prowling up and down the rear wall of the cave, her fingers running over the rocky wall. The vicomte joined her, before he stepped back to observe their surroundings and exclaimed,

"It's a dead end! Oh, Christine, _Christine_. We're further away from her than ever!" He sat down on the floor, shoulders slumped and head bowed in defeat. "How many more tricks does that bastard have up his sleeve?"

Meg stopped briefly to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder before returning her attention to the wall. "Remember what I said, Monsieur. You have to think like the Phantom. If you were living all the way down here, would you leave a signpost to let any intruders know your exact whereabouts?"

Raoul groaned. "Mademoiselle Giry – Meg – _must_ you be so wise and logical?"

"At least one of us should. Do you not think so?"

He just grunted in response, and so Meg continued with her explorations. It took some time but eventually she made out a dark shadow where there should not have been one, a thin strip running several feet up the wall. Motioning Raoul over with the lamp once again, she rested a hand against the rock and found to both her surprise and satisfaction that it gave beneath the pressure. An invisible door swung slowly open on well-oiled hinges revealing an incongruously ordinary hallway, as though someone had buried a house deep beneath the Opera. Cautiously, she stepped inside, ignoring Raoul's hiss of warning, moving quickly when she felt broken glass crunch beneath her slippers.

As she looked around, it became clear that her impression was not far from the truth: this was indeed a house encased within the rock. Meg wasn't sure exactly what she had been expecting when she thought of the Phantom's home, but it had certainly not been this. Far from being a refuge, a hideaway bearing the basic necessities, this was more comfortable and better furnished than many a Parisian apartment. The hall stretched ahead, doors leading from it indicating further rooms, its panelled walls decorated with paintings and tapestries. A stand bearing various hats and coats had been hidden behind the door, and on a wooden table were thrown the usual debris of everyday life, from gloves to letters to keys. All that was missing was a mirror. The glass had come from a pretty table lamp, the broken body of which rolled across the floor when Raoul accidentally touched it with his foot.

"My God," he said as he extinguished their lantern, superfluous in the gas lighting which illuminated the hallway. Meg had no idea how such a thing could be achieved so far underground. "Your mother was right: he _is_ a genius."

Meg began to reply, but before she could speak a door opened further down the hall. She heard her mother's voice call out, and automatically started towards the sound; as she did, Christine all but flew through the doorway. She stood for a moment, staring at them, eyes wide and hair dishevelled; the colourful dress of Aminta that she still wore rusty with dried blood. Several seconds passed as no one dared to speak or move, and then Christine's face crumpled and she threw herself at Raoul, beating his chest with her tiny fists.

"This is all your fault!" she cried, fighting him as he caught hold of her wrists, trying to halt her sudden assault upon his person. "_You_ did this – you've killed him!"

"Me? What did I - " He stopped, holding her away from him, and looked her anxiously up and down. "You're not hurt? He's not harmed you? The blood - "

"It's Erik's," Christine replied tonelessly. "He's dying, and it's all your fault."

Meg turned her gaze from one to the other, and realisation struck. "Christine, surely you can't think that _Raoul_ fired that shot?" she asked. "He couldn't have reached the pit until just before the gun went off."

"I know what I saw," her friend insisted, chin lifted stubbornly, her eyes not leaving her fiancé. "I saw you pointing a pistol at him."

"Christine," Raoul began, but she pulled away from him. "Christine, _please_. There was no other way, you _know_ that!"

"Come and see," she said, turning and walking back towards the open doorway. "Come and see what you've done."


	37. Monsters and Angels

**MONSTERS AND ANGELS**

The room into which Christine led them was dimly lit by gas lamps turned down and a candelabrum on the table by the bed. It was quite obviously a man's room: Meg could make out dark, heavy furniture and rich, intricately-patterned rugs and it was evident that the owner of the house had seen no reason not to make himself comfortable in his isolation. The focal point was the carved mahogany bedstead, and it was on this, amongst the red and black sheets, that they found the wounded Phantom, Madame Giry sitting at his side.

There was a vaguely familiar smell in the air; Meg recognised the metallic tang of blood, and something else, something more difficult to identify but which told of illness and infirmity. The bedside table was littered with medical detritus, old and new bandages, antiseptic and glasses of water. Though she had barely been five years old when it happened, she found herself reminded of the night they found her father coughing, a bloodstained handkerchief in his grasp. She knew her mother thought that she had forgotten the experience, and had allowed the misapprehension to persist in order to lessen the pain, but in truth it was imprinted upon her mind's eye. Meg would never forget how weak her Papa appeared, old before his time as consumption slowly but surely wasted him away.

Christine went immediately to Erik, taking his hand in both of hers. She glanced back at them, almost defiantly. Meg tried to reconcile the quiet, shy Christine with whom she had been friends for so long with the woman she saw before her now; it was almost as though the trials of the past few weeks had forced her to discover the confidence that she had always lacked. "Are you happy now, Raoul?" Christine asked, her dark eyes hard. "You have what you wanted: the Phantom of the Opera is helpless before you. What do you wish to do, call the police or finish him off yourself?"

Meg glanced at Raoul. The vicomte looked appalled, his face drained of colour. For a moment Meg thought he might faint and wondered whether he had ever seen an injured man before. He swallowed several times, almost forcing himself to move closer to the bed, stepping cautiously as though he expected it all to be a pretence, that the Phantom might suddenly jump up and grab him by the throat. As Meg watched the unsteady rise and fall of Erik's chest, she realised that the Opera Ghost was long gone, in his place an all too mortal man struggling to cling onto life.

"I didn't..." Raoul swallowed again, passing a hand across his forehead. Meg exchanged a worried glance with her mother and wondered if he was about to be sick. "I didn't think, didn't believe that... he played the ghost so well! It almost didn't seem as though he was..."

"Human?" said Christine sharply.

"Yes! No. I don't know! All the threats, the tricks... none of it seemed real. It was as if we were all caught up in some dreadful play and there was only one way we could be free, that if only we could win he would just disappear like the villain in a story book!"

"Erik isn't a monster, a troll that lives under a bridge! He's a man, Raoul, and he can be hurt just as easily as you or I. Have you never wondered why he became the Phantom?" she asked. When Raoul didn't answer, she did something which surprised them all: biting her lip, she gently set Erik's hand down upon the coverlet and reached over, curling her fingers around the edge of his mask. Slowly, almost reverently, the porcelain was carefully lifted and set aside, and there, finally revealed to them all, was the Phantom's face.

It was a horrible sight; Meg covered her mouth to stifle her gasp. Her mother's expression did not change, and she realised that Madame Giry must have seen the twisted, ravaged features before. Meg made herself look, to take in the visible muscles and blood vessels, the razor-sharp bones which almost cut through the translucent skin. He had no right eyebrow, just the ridge where it should have been, less pronounced than that on the good side of his face. Half of his nose had failed to develop and the lid of his eye, which she remembered was a pale blue in contrast to the dark brown of the other, was dragged downwards by the deformity of his cheek. His lips, which opened slightly as he tried to draw in sufficient air, were purple and bloated, flaring out towards the distortion. Despite the shock, and the sadness which filled her heart, all Meg could think was that Joseph Buquet's descriptions had been completely wrong.

"Can you imagine having to live with this every day of your life? Madame Giry told me that when the gypsies displayed him in the freak show they called him the Living Corpse," Christine said. "It may not excuse his behaviour, but I understand him now. I know why he had to demand respect. He had no choice, for no one would ever give him the chance to earn it. His face has always provoked nothing but horror, and I am ashamed to say that it did so in me when first I saw it. I was frightened, but this haunted face holds no horror for me now."

"Oh, God." The vicomte seemed to lose the strength to stand; hurriedly, Madame Giry pushed him into the chair beside the bed, pressing a glass of water into his hand. He took a sip and ran trembling fingers over his chin before raising his head to look at Christine. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Christine. I'm a fool."

"You didn't pull the trigger, Raoul," Meg reminded him, and Christine's eyes turned to her, widening in surprise.

Raoul shook his head. "Maybe not, but I placed the marksman in the pit and gave the order to shoot." He glanced at the wounded man, at the scarlet stain that was spreading through the bandages, and quickly looked away. "I'm to blame. Andre and Firmin wouldn't even back me up. God help me, I've never fired a shot in anger. I've never even killed a rabid dog, let alone another man."

Madame Giry rested a hand on his shoulder. "Erik is not dead yet, Monsieur. I was about to fetch a doctor, a man I hope I can trust. He will not like it, but we have no choice. Will you look after the girls while I am gone?"

The vicomte watched Christine for a long moment, a strange expression on his face. When he spoke, his words surprised Meg. "Madame, my carriage will still be waiting on the Rue Scribe," he said. "Consider it at your disposal."

The ballet mistress demurred, but he waved aside her objections.

"If speed is of the essence it is the best way," he told her, and at last she nodded.

"Very well. If you will accompany me to dispel any confusion on the part of your driver..?" With Raoul's agreement, they both moved towards the door. Madame stopped to kiss her daughter on the forehead, murmuring, "Meg Giry, we will discuss your disobeying my instructions later."

She moved away, the keys attached to the chatelaine at her waist jangling; the sound was unnaturally loud in the quiet of the sick room. So far below the Opera the silence was heavy, almost tangible. It seemed as though they were completely cut off, cocooned from the outside world, and it felt both comforting and unnerving. To live down here, all alone, for so many years would test the strength of anyone; it was understandable that the man who had been forced to spend his life hidden from the sight of others was touched by madness.

The vicomte stood aside to allow Meg's mother to precede him into the hall, and as he turned to follow Christine said softly,

"Thank you, Raoul."

He glanced back, a smile touching his face, before he bowed slightly and was gone, the door closing behind him.

"He's a good man," Meg said when they were alone. "He doesn't always succeed but he does try, you have to admit that."

Christine sighed. She had taken up Erik's hand again and was staring at his long, thin fingers, caressing his knuckles almost unconsciously with her thumb. "I know. He deserves so much more than I can give him."

* * *

><p>The time passed slowly, measured out by the ticking of the heavy ornamental clock on the mantelpiece.<p>

After rising briefly to lock the front door, Christine seemed disinclined towards conversation, her attention entirely devoted to her fallen Angel of Music. Barely even aware of Meg's presence, she tended to him, bathing his face and tucking more blankets over him when he began to shiver. Once he stirred, his eyes opening and making Meg jump; the sudden animation of his macabre face was so very like a corpse returning to life that she had to breathe deeply to bring her racing heart under control.

"...Chris...tine?" he whispered, muddled gaze searching her anxious face.

Christine raised his hand to her lips. "I'm here, Angel."

For a moment it looked as though he was trying to say something, but further speech seemed to be beyond him; with a faint sigh he nodded and let his eyes fall closed once more. Christine watched him sadly, brushing back his hair and tracing a feather-light touch across his distorted cheek, before she stood, crossing the room to the empty fireplace. Rubbing her upper arms and hugging herself as though she were terribly cold, she paced back and forth, eventually dropping to a crouch and beginning to lay out logs and kindling in the grate. Silently, Meg joined her, kneeling companionably at her side. When there was a tolerable blaze, Christine said,

"Have you ever been in love, Meg?"

"True love?" Meg asked, though she was not entirely surprised by the question.

"If there is such a thing, yes."

Meg sat back on her heels, holding out her chilled hands to the fire. "I don't think so," she said truthfully. "I'm not sure I know what love feels like."

"I did think I knew, for a while," Christine mused. She drifted back to her feet and began to fold the pile of bloodstained clothing which had been haphazardly thrown across the armchair. "I thought it would feel safe, secure, as if nothing in the world could hurt me. When I found a place I could be as happy and protected as when my father was alive, I believed I'd found love."

"You don't believe that any longer, though, do you?" Meg's eyes followed her friend as she worked her way around the room, tidying the bedside table and smoothing down the sheets. She recalled all the times Christine had been nervous before a performance; where others might have been physically sick from stage fright, she always put her store of energy into something practical. Meg knew that she herself became an even worse chatterbox than usual when anxiety struck, rambling on and on about inconsequential subjects, but Christine would clean the dancers' dressing room, put away discarded props and costumes almost mechanically; before one particularly important show she had even swept the floor and had to be stopped from polishing the ballerinas' street shoes.

"I wanted to be safe," she said now, a roll of bandages in her hands. "I wanted it so badly after Papa died. Raoul could keep me safe, I knew that; he was always rescuing me from one scrape or another when we were children. When Joseph Buquet died and then the chandelier came down I was so terrified I didn't know what to do. The thought that Erik had killed someone, for _me_...! Raoul offered me an escape, a way out of the madness and I accepted. I thought my problems would be over, that I would finally be free from the uncertainty that had haunted me for so long.

"But I was wrong. I tried to fit in, I tried so hard, but I couldn't do it. There was always something calling me back. Even so far away from the Opera, when I could no longer hear his voice in my head, I was drawn to my Angel." Christine sat down on the edge of the bed, her hand stealing towards Erik's once more. "Is that love, do you think? Do you love someone when the thought of being apart from them for even a few moments feels as though there is a great aching chasm at the bottom of your soul?"

"That sounds like love to me," said Meg, and Christine bowed her head, looking away.

"I know," she whispered, "and you have no idea how much that scares me."


	38. The Quality of Mercy

**Author's Note:  
><strong>

****Many, many thanks once again to all those who have reviewed. I'm so glad you're continuing to enjoy the story. :)

* * *

><p><strong>THE QUALITY OF MERCY<strong>

"You must understand, Madame, that this situation is highly irregular."

Antoinette nodded as she followed the doctor into the tunnel, closing the gate behind them and locking it securely. Raoul led the way into the darkness once more, lamp held high. She was grateful for his assistance; had he not gone with her to Doctor Lambert's house she feared she would have returned empty-handed, for the physician had been most reluctant to attend a patient in such circumstances. They appealed to his kind heart and good nature, Madame Giry reminding him of the great service he had once done one of her girls when she tried in desperation to rid herself of the child she was carrying; then he had been compassion itself, despite the sordid circumstances and the threat of scandal. The incident had never come to the ears of the gossipmongers who hung around the Opera, hungry for tittle-tattle about the patrons, and for that the doctor would always have her gratitude for she knew that the enemies of poor Collette's high-born lover would swoop on the story and do considerable damage with it. Eventually the doctor agreed to come, but there was a chance they had wasted too much time; Antoinette dreaded what she might find when they returned to the subterranean house.

"I am aware of that, Monsieur, but as I explained before, this man urgently needs a doctor and I knew of no one else I could trust," she said now.

Lambert cocked an eyebrow, glancing back at her. "I may not be able to afford to frequent the Opera as a spectator, but rumours have been circling for some time now, regarding this 'Phantom' and his exploits. Can you assure me that I am not to be involved in anything illegal?"

"You need not be concerned, Monsieur," Raoul said before Antoinette could open her mouth. "I will pay your bill, and you make take my word that your reputation will not be affected by your help tonight."

The doctor inclined his head. "I thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte, but that is not quite what I meant. One hears things, you know, and though I am aware that the press have a tendency to exaggerate and blow the smallest occurrences out of all proportion, there is the matter of the stagehand that was hanged above the stage during a performance, and the disappearance of Mademoiselle Daae... both were laid at the door of this Phantom."

"The death of Joseph Buquet was an accident, nothing more," Madame Giry said firmly. "The inquest settled that matter. And Mademoiselle Daae did not 'disappear', as the newspapers put it. She was with her maestro, her music teacher. It is he who is in need of your skills, and I must ask you to hurry, Monsieur, for he is in a very bad way."

They began to walk again, much to her relief, Lambert acquiescing with the slightest hint of reluctance. Thankfully the route from the Rue Scribe entrance to the tunnels was a quicker and easier one to traverse than that which led from the interior of the theatre to the cellars. They had left the vicomte's carriage two streets away and approached the gate cautiously and on foot to avoid attracting undue attention; Antoinette was glad that the nearest streetlamp was several yards from the entrance and wondered whether Erik had planned it that way. Two staircases, the second snaking round and round in a disorientating spiral, took them down to the fifth cellar, an innocuous wooden door leading into the cavern which housed the underground lake.

"Good Lord," the doctor said, gazing around him. "Do you mean to tell me that this gentleman actually lives _beneath_ the theatre?"

"He is a recluse, Monsieur," Raoul replied, and Antoinette released the breath she had not realised she was holding, thanking him silently for continuing with their subterfuge. "My fiancée comes to him for her singing lessons. Though he may be isolated, he is a musical genius."

Madame Giry knocked upon the hidden door, calling Christine's name softly. A few moments later the door opened slowly, and the little soprano peered around it. Upon seeing the ballet mistress, Raoul and the doctor behind her, she breathed a long sigh of relief, standing aside to allow them to enter. When Antoinette asked after Erik, Christine clasped her sleeve, her face drawn and anxious.

"He won't stop shivering, Madame. I've tried my best to keep him warm but he just shakes and shakes and his hands are so cold! I didn't know what else I could do - "

Madame Giry put an arm around her, drawing her into the bedroom after Lambert and the vicomte. Once there, the doctor immediately took charge, setting down his bag and calling for more light. They all waited while he made an examination, for the moment refraining from asking about the mask which was once more covering the Phantom's deformity. It seemed to take forever, but eventually he turned to them and his expression was serious.

"I will need to operate immediately to remove the bullet," he said, looking round at them all over his glasses. "The conditions here are deplorable, but I assume that there must be some solid surface I can use to lay him on while I work?"

"There is a table in the kitchen," Antoinette said, and he nodded.

"I will need it moved into this room, and also as much light as you can possibly provide. Is there running water down here? Boiling water to sterilise my instruments is imperative."

In a few moments they were all employed in satisfying the doctor's demands. Christine and Meg set about filling a kettle and putting it over the fire in the bedroom, fetching bowls and cloths, lighting more candles, while Raoul assisted Madame Giry in carrying the heavy deal table from the kitchen. It was not an easy task, manoeuvring such an awkward piece of furniture through two doorways and down the hall, but between them they somehow managed it, setting it up to the right of Erik's bed and covering it and the floor with as many spare sheets as they could find.

"I am grateful to you, Monsieur," Antoinette said as they watched Lambert make his preparations. "Were it not for your help, Erik would not stand a chance."

"I am doing this for Christine, Madame, not for him," he replied. He kept his eyes averted from the bloody bandages as the doctor peeled them back. "I deplore what has happened, and I regret that I allowed myself to descend to his level and commit an act of which I am not proud. I should have been stronger, but he taunted me until I became no better than him. There is no honour in any of this."

"Christine has it in her to feel compassion, to shed a tear for his dark fate. Do you really think he deserves the hell he has made for himself?"

Raoul sighed. "I am sorry, Madame. I wish I could say as much, and be the better man, but I cannot forgive him for the damage he has done to her."

There was an uncomfortable silence, one which was broken only when Lambert, having laid out his surgical instruments and removed his coat, rolling up his shirt sleeves, turned to face them.

"All is ready," he said. "Would you assist me, Madame? I have need of a nurse, and I seem to recall your competent help when I attended Mademoiselle Collette."

"Of course, Monsieur." Antoinette shooed Christine and Meg from the room, though the former begged to stay by her Angel's side. Hoping to distract her, Meg asked to be shown some more of the house, and led her bewildered friend away from the bedroom. Raoul made to follow them, but stopped when addressed by the doctor, who requested his help with moving the wounded Phantom onto the makeshift operating table.

As the two men began to lift him, he stirred, his eyes opening slightly. A glassy mismatched gaze moved back and forth over their faces before finally settling on Antoinette's, and a frown touched the visible side of his forehead. He was laid back on his pillows and Lambert picked up a bottle, measuring out a dose of a sweet-smelling substance. Madame Giry recognised the scent of chloroform as she bent over Erik.

"Annie..? What are they... doing...?" His voice was barely more than a breath, and she had to lean close to hear it. She patted his trembling hand reassuringly.

"It's all right, Erik," she told him, "Everything will be all right."

"Can the mask be removed?" Lambert asked, a pad of cotton wool in his hand. "He needs to be able to inhale properly, and it is obviously restricting his breathing."

Erik started at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, his gaze swivelling towards the newcomer. Distress flared in his eyes and Madame Giry felt a twinge of guilt that she had caused his sanctuary to be invaded in such a fashion. He tried to lift his hand, no doubt to grasp the doctor by the throat and demand to know why he was trespassing, but before he could reach Lambert his strength failed and his arm fell heavily back onto the bed.

"Shh, Erik," Antoinette said softly, stroking his hair as Lambert moved to the bedside, out of his line of sight. "Don't worry, no one is going to hurt you."

One blue eye and one brown glared up at her accusingly. "Judas..." he whispered. "...betrayer..."

"Never! Have I ever seen you harmed before? Now just relax, my dear, please. Just close your eyes..." She tried to make her voice as light and calming as she had often done with Meg when she needed comfort, but he was having none of it. As she gently removed his mask his eyes widened and he jerked upright for a moment before collapsing once more with a moan.

"...please, no... not that... anything but... that..."

Seeing that his patient was becoming agitated, the doctor stepped forward. Leaning over the wounded man and not even flinching at the sight of his face, he pressed the chloroform-soaked pad over Erik's nose and mouth. The Phantom struggled for a moment but he was too weak to fight. His eyelids fluttered as the drug began to have its effect.

"That's it, Monsieur, just breathe deeply," Lambert said, watching as Erik's eyes gradually fell closed. "Breathe deeply, and sleep..."


	39. Coming Out Of The Dark

**COMING OUT OF THE DARK**

There was a haze of pain, blackness edged with red, surrounding him.

Noises, voices, came and went, fading in and out as he slipped between consciousness and oblivion; it was impossible to distinguish between those which were real and the spectres conjured from the depths of his hellish imagination. More than once Erik could clearly see his mother bending over him, her golden hair shining like a halo, an irony which would have made him laugh if only he could. Her piercing eyes and pursed mouth as she regarded him spoke more eloquently of her disappointment and disgust than any words could have done; he was a child again, desperate to be loved and accepted, always failing to move her stony heart no matter how hard he tried.

"_Look at you!_" she cried,_ "I should have known that you would be reduced to this, hiding in the dark like the animal you are! How could I ever be proud of such a miserable cur? You are a changeling, I know it now. You may as well return to the nothingness from which you came, for you are no son of mine!_"

With a moan, a pitiful sound, Erik squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again Christine was there. Impossible! Had he not told Antoinette to send her away? What was she doing sitting at his side, gazing at him with such compassion in her beautiful eyes? He tried to say her name, tried to tell her to go, but the words were garbled, indistinguishable even to him, his voice a pathetic parody of itself. To his amazement, she kissed his hand, and then she faded from view. Only her voice remained, echoing in the void.

"_I'm here, Angel_."

Erik wanted to reach for her, to call her back, but he was too tired. He could not recall feeling so utterly drained in years; the pain seemed almost inconsequential in comparison with such bone-deep fatigue, so great that he could barely even manage to lift his eyelids. He slipped away once more, into the safe cocoon of the darkness which welcomed him with open arms.

He had no idea how much time had passed, whether it was minutes, hours or days. A blink seemed to last an eternity. He was cold, so terribly cold, and then the pain returned, waking him abruptly and bringing with it voices and faces, both strange and familiar, which became clearer with every passing moment. Antoinette was talking to him, her tone soothing, but she was not alone; his unfocussed gaze found the features of a man he had never seen before, an intruder in his kingdom. Anger rising, Erik tried to reach for this trespasser, but his hand, the hand which had wound the Punjab lasso almost lovingly around so many necks, would not obey him. The interloper went free.

Light fingers stroked his hair, a sensation entirely new to him. He leaned into the touch, relishing the contact, and then stiffened as he felt those same fingers move to his face, to his mask. Cool air touched his deformed cheek and he knew, despite the cotton wool which seemed to be filling his brain, that he had been betrayed. Fury briefly eclipsed the pain, and he hissed an accusation. How could she do such a thing to him, after all that they had been through? A sob rose up in his throat, and he stared at her, feeling tears of rage and disappointment prickle at his eyelids. He begged her not to, his own voice sounding as though it came from very far away, as if it belonged to someone else, begged her to leave him his dignity at least.

"..._please, no... not that... anything but... that_..."

A sickly smell enveloped him, its sweetness stirring terrible memories of a noisy tavern and iron bars. He was addressed by someone else, an authoritative baritone he did not recognise, before darkness swept over him and he knew nothing more.

* * *

><p>"You have been very lucky, Monsieur. An inch or two higher, and the bullet would have shattered your collarbone; a little lower and you would have a punctured lung."<p>

Bewildered, Erik opened his eyes to see the strange man standing over him. He noticed with a peculiar detachment that the fellow wore spectacles and a pointed beard, as well as a tired smile; blood stained the rolled sleeves of his crumpled shirt. Opening his mouth to speak, he was frustrated when little more than a croak emerged; strong hands lifted his head and brought a glass of water to his parched mouth. He drank gratefully, his eyelids drooping once more. By the time his head touched the pillow again he had forgotten what he wanted to say, his senses reclaimed by Morpheus.

* * *

><p>Time moved on.<p>

Gradually, the comforting nothingness in which he had been content to float began to recede, drawing him back towards the waking world. Pain reasserted itself, though it was no longer the sharp, wrenching agony he had endured before; a dull, hot throbbing centred itself in his arm and shoulder, the tongues of fire licking at his flesh as he tried to move finally pulling him into full consciousness.

Erik held completely still, gritting his teeth against the discomfort. He could handle pain; throughout his life he had become well acquainted with its indiscriminate touch. Slowly it began to subside to more manageable levels, his vision cleared and he was able to see his surroundings clearly for the first time in what seemed like years.

Vaguely he remembered returning to his home, and he was indeed lying in his own bed, five storeys below the Opera. The room around him was a mess, the night table covered with all manner of medical debris: bottles and bandages, water glasses and rolls of lint and gauze all jostled for space. The armchair had been dragged from the fireplace to the side of the bed, and though it was empty at the moment a crumpled blanket told of recent occupancy. He explored his injury with heavy, unsteady fingers, finding it expertly bound, his left arm immobilised in a sling. Someone had dressed him in his warmest nightshirt; his ruined suit lay neatly folded on the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, shoes standing beside it. Over the chair in the corner lay the Don Juan cloak, discarded. The sight of it brought the events of the evening crashing back: his impulsive decision to save the performance, singing with Christine on the stage and feeling the connection between them once more, the potency of their duet. His good hand stole towards his face, fingers tracing his mangled lips, as he recalled her kiss...

He had not been expecting that. When he walked onto the set he had no idea what would happen, how she would react to his presence. She made him promise to stay away, to deny his enemies the opportunity they desired, for which they had planned. They were counting upon his attendance, and he had given her his word that he would prove them wrong. Vanity and desperation drove him to take Piangi's place, and she had scolded him for it. Her initial shock and anger only increased the emotions which were already running high within them both. Elation filled him as he realised that his voice could still have the same power over her, that she would always respond to his call; he had all but forgotten that he had decreed Don Juan should embrace Aminta, so caught up on the moment was he. As he held her hand, feeling her warm, smooth fingers against his, he thought that he would melt with sheer delight; he never wanted to let her go. She met his gaze, a question in her eyes, and he found he had no idea what he should do next. The world beyond the two of them might as well have ceased to exist.

And then... and then... she had touched her perfect, ruby lips to his. Erik had never been kissed before. He had often dreamed of such a thing, but knew that it was an experience he would never share, for no one would kiss a gargoyle. When Christine kissed him he had no idea what to do. He had never been touched in such an intimate fashion, and instead of joy, panic filled him and he tried to pull away; bless her, his angel would not let him, her warm mouth moving against his, her breath coming as fast as his own. She stood on tiptoes, her hands cupping the back of his head, her heaving little bosom pressed against his chest, and he thought he might die there and then on the spot. She pulled away at last and smiled...

He had known immediately that he could never condemn her to his hell, to a half life buried underground. A delicate flower would never withstand such a fate, deprived of sunlight. Though it might tear him apart, he knew that he had to let her go. Heedless of the audience, of the shadowy presence which ringed the auditorium, just waiting to catch him, he prepared himself to tell her, to open the cage door and allow her to fly. But before he could speak he felt the hood pulled back, the fabric sliding across his mask and suddenly he was exposed, blinking and startled, in the full glare of the stage lights. There was a shout, a scream, and then chaos. After that he recalled little more than wisps, snatches of sound and colour, everything around him a blur but for that moment of clarity when he pressed the little Japanned box into Antoinette's hands and told her to send Christine back to the boy. De Chagny could give her the life she deserved, far more than a monster hiding in a cellar could have done.

A single tear trickled down his cheek. She would be far away now, in the arms of her handsome suitor. Never again would she have to think of the lonely, rejected man to whom she had given a fleeting glimpse of happiness. He closed his eyes, the lids burning as more tears welled up despite his attempts to stop them. Raising his right hand to brush them away he froze, feeling the distorted flesh beneath his fingertips. Turning his head with an effort, he spied his mask amongst the litter on the bedside table, and realised that he had not been dreaming when he felt its removal. Anger flared within him once more, displacing sorrow, and he tried to reach for the mask; it lay just out of reach, empty eye taunting him. Without thinking, Erik fought his left arm free of the confining sling, pushing himself up on both elbows.

It was a mistake. Pain lanced through him, and he fell heavily against the pillows with a shout. There was the sound of running feet in the hallway and the door was thrown open, Madame Giry hurrying into the room with others close on her heels. Breathing heavily, his shoulder burning as though he had plunged it into a bucket of hot coals, Erik glared at them all. How dared she take advantage of him in this way? He would never have allowed so many people into his sanctuary, not if they wished to live!

"Why did you not invite the Prime Minister and the Queen of England as well, Madame?" he asked. "Or perhaps put up some posters, advertising trips to the Phantom's lair? I am sure there would be a queue longer than that for _La Belle H__é__l__è__ne_!"

Antoinette ignored him, fussing about with pillows and blankets, tutting at the ruined sling. "Really, Erik, you will tear the stitches!" she scolded, as though he were a naughty child. "Lie down, and I will fetch you some morphine for the pain."

"I want nothing more from you, Madame," Erik growled, swiftly covering the damaged side of his face with his hand as he recognised the other intruders. Little Giry hovered in the doorway, still in her gypsy costume, and to his horror and astonishment behind her stood the tall, fair-haired figure of the Vicomte de Chagny. At the sight of him Erik wanted nothing more than to sink into the shadows that were his natural home and never emerge. To think that the boy, the perfect, perfect boy, had seen his face! Had he not been humiliated enough? With a strangled cry he reached for his mask again, desperate for the protection it gave. Once more his hand fell short; exhausted he collapsed on his side, burying his deformity in the pillow and trying to stifle the sobs which threatened to unman him.

A small hand rested on his cheek, the thumb gently stroking his jaw. He swallowed, opening one eye a fraction to see a beautiful face close to his, a dark brown gaze regarding him in concern. A familiar fragrance, still strong despite the competing scents of blood and sweat and wood smoke, touched his mockery of a nose.

"Let us help you, my Angel," she said.

He could not bear it. Jerking his head away from her touch, he turned a furious gaze upon Antoinette as she still stood at the bedside. "Do you now disobey all my orders, Madame?" he demanded, his voice catching in his throat. "I told you to send her away!"

"Erik, no, please -" Christine cried, dropping to her knees. She tried to capture his hand, but he pulled it from her. "_Please_ don't do this - "

De Chagny started forwards, crouching beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "Come on, Christine. You can do nothing more." He glanced at Erik, challenging him to argue, but the Phantom nodded.

"Take her, Monsieur. Go now, and never return." Christine looked horrified at his words and Erik had to close his eyes. Her tears would be his undoing. "Take the boat, and promise me that you will tell no one about what you have seen."

None of them moved. There was a long pause, during which he could clearly hear the ticking of the mantelpiece clock, and then they all began to speak at once.

"Erik, this is foolish!" Antoinette snapped, only to be cut across by her daughter calling Christine's name. There was a scuffle beside the bed, which Erik could only assume was Raoul trying to pull his fiancée away. He refused to look.

"Erik, you can't do this, don't make me leave," Christine pleaded, "I don't want to go!"

"Christine, come with me," the vicomte murmured. "It's for the best, you'll see that in time. Please, my darling, don't make this harder than it has to be."

"No, no, I won't. Raoul, I don't want to - "

"Christine - "

"_No_! Let me go! _Erik_ - !"

The voices became a cacophony. Erik could take no more. Covering his head with his good arm, pain flaring through the other and his heart feeling as though it would break in two, he roared,

"Go! _Go now and leave me_!"


	40. The Actress Hasn't Learned The Lines

**Author's Note:  
><strong>

Chapter title comes from my other favourite musical, _Evita_.

* * *

><p><strong>THE ACTRESS HASN'T LEARNED THE LINES YOU'D LIKE TO HEAR<strong>

"Christine, we can go home now. He's in good hands."

They stood in the hallway, Christine staring at the closed bedroom door. Madame Giry had remained within, and been joined by Doctor Lambert; this time Raoul did not offer his assistance, his concern solely for Christine. He hoped that the unhappy man behind that door would get the help he needed, but he was someone else's burden now. They were finally free.

He took Christine's hand, squeezing it. "You can forget all of this, everything that's happened. We can start again, away from Paris, if that's what you wish."

She glanced up at him, gnawing on her bottom lip. "I... I don't want to forget, Raoul."

"You don't..?" He frowned, confused. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying..." Christine took a deep breath and pulled away from him slightly. She looked down at her feet for a long time, and then at last raised her head to meet his eyes. "I'm saying that I'm staying here."

Raoul stared at her in astonishment, almost thinking he had misheard her. "Christine – darling – there is no need for you to stay any longer. The Phantom... Erik... he has Meg and Madame Giry; he doesn't need you as well. He doesn't _want_ you here, he made that perfectly plain. Please, come home with me."

She shook her head, and he felt his horror mounting. She couldn't be serious, surely? Who would want to remain, entombed in the ground like this, with a wounded, unstable man who could barely control his temper? "I'm sorry, Raoul, I can't." Holding out her hand to him, she unfurled her fingers: in her palm, sparkling in the lamplight, was a diamond ring. His heart sank at the sight of it. "Please, take it."

"Christine, don't do this," he begged, unconsciously echoing her own words to the Phantom just a few moments before. She did not withdraw her hand. "I _love_ you! And I thought you loved me too."

"Oh, Raoul." Her eyes were sad, but he did not miss the by now familiar determined set to her mouth. How could he have failed to see the confidence which had been growing within her over the past few weeks? "I _do_ love you, but I realise now that I love you as a brother and a friend, as that brave, impulsive boy who ran into the sea to fetch my scarf."

"Then why - "

"That was so long ago! We are different people now – I'm not that little girl any longer, I'm not Little Lotte." When he made no move to take the ring she reached for his hand, setting the diamonds there and curling his fingers around them. "I should never have agreed to marry you. It wasn't fair of me, but I was alone and scared and I wanted to be safe. You deserve someone who can love you with all her heart, and I just can't do that."

Raoul's stomach lurched. He swallowed slowly. "Is this because of _him_?" he asked, already sure of the answer.

"Perhaps." Christine's eyes dropped to the floor once more, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.

"Christine, he abducted you - twice! He frightened you to death, made you scared of your own shadow! How can you keep defending him?"

"I don't know."

"I think I do." His tone was sharper than he intended, and her head flew up, startled.

"I don't want to lead you a dance, Raoul, pretending that I feel something I don't. Please believe me, you are worth more than that."

"It doesn't matter! I'd endure anything just to be with you." The ring felt cold and heavy in his grip; its delicate gold band might as well have been a lead weight. He held it out to her. "Please, _please_ think again."

"I can't!" Her big brown eyes were full of tears. "I won't make you miserable, and that is what would happen eventually. Sooner or later, you would want more than I could give, and you would hate me for it. I can't suffer that, and neither should you. We have to make this break now, before it's too late."

"Christine... _Christine_... you are the only woman I have ever wanted to marry. I need you, I love you more than anything in the world," Raoul said desperately. "Please say that you won't forsake me."

"I can't... I can't say what you want to hear." Wringing her hands, she moved down the hall. She leant against an intricate table, and stroked the red velvet curtain which hung across one of the doorways, a sad smile touching her drawn face. With a jolt, Raoul realised that she looked quite at home in this extraordinary setting, more than she had ever done in his brother's grand chateau or the Hôtel de Chagny. In those lavish rooms she appeared as lost and fragile as a single rose, plucked and left to wilt in a crystal vase; he saw now that she had never been content, not really. There had always been something missing, something she somehow found in an impossible house deep underground.

"Can you truly be happy here, with him?" he asked. "I remember when the darkness terrified you."

Christine turned, the curtain falling from her grasp. "It did, until I realised there was darkness within me, too. The first time, after the gala, I admit he took me by surprise and I was scared, but tonight... tonight I went with him of my own free will. I don't expect you to understand, Raoul," she added, before he could speak, "I don't even understand it myself, not entirely. I just know that your world of wealth and privilege felt more of a prison to me than this place could ever be."

Clutching at straws, Raoul said quickly, "We could leave all that, go somewhere far away, just the two of us! Christine - "

"You would hate it." She stepped up to him, straightening his rumpled coat and smoothing down his lapels. "I don't expect you to make that kind of sacrifice; no one should."

"I don't want to leave you here, with him," he told her plaintively.

Christine smiled at him, reaching up to brush a lock of hair back from his brow. Standing on her toes, almost en pointe as the dancer she was, she kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Raoul, for everything you've done for me. I'll never forget it, and I'll never forget you. Live a good life, won't you?"

He nodded, dumbly, his throat suddenly too thick to allow any words. Briefly, Christine's fingers traced the line of his jaw. She whispered, "God bless you," and then she was gone, the door of the bedroom closing silently behind her.

* * *

><p>Raoul stood for some minutes in the dim hallway before he became aware of a presence behind him. He turned to see Meg standing on the threshold of the library.<p>

"I'm sorry," she said simply.

He hefted the diamond ring in his hand. Christine never had worn it publicly, he realised. He should have guessed that something was not right when she insisted upon keeping their engagement a secret. "Maybe I'll live to be lucky at cards, eh?" he remarked, trying to inject a levity he did not feel into his voice. His gaze returned to the closed door, his thoughts to the man behind it. "He's won, hasn't he?"

"Don't think of it like that." Meg laid a comforting hand on his arm. "If you do, you'll be bitter to the end of your days."

They stood in silence for a while. Raoul was grateful for her company; the last thing he wanted just now was to be alone. "Does she love him, do you think?" he wondered at last.

"I don't know," she said honestly.

"Does he love her?"

"I don't know that either."

He sighed, wanting nothing more than to sink to the floor, cover his face with his hands and curl up into a ball. It felt as though his heart had shattered like the fallen chandelier, its shards flung far and wide. "What can I do, Meg?"

She squeezed his arm. "Christine has made her decision; now you have to let her make her own mistakes."

Raoul glanced down at her, wishing he could be so pragmatic. "Is that what you would do, as her friend?" She nodded. "And if things go wrong?"

"I will be here to pick up the pieces," Meg said firmly. "That's what friends are for."

They didn't speak again, but both knew that the other was watching that door and hoping that there would be no pieces to collect.


	41. Strong Enough

**STRONG ENOUGH**

Christine hated the small hours of the morning.

It was the time when the rest of the world seemed to disappear, lost in dreams; a strange, unearthly time caught between the darkness and the light during which hopes and fears ran riot, chasing themselves across half-conscious minds. As she sat beside the bed in the subterranean house she could not help but feel as though she had been transported back five years, to the moments when her father took his last breaths. She had been alone then, too, but for their elderly landlady and the brief visit by the physician, who had shaken his head sadly and patted her hand as he left. Though there was obviously nothing he could do to save Gustave Daae, he had not neglected to send her his bill. It arrived on the morning of the funeral, and Christine left in on the sideboard until she was forced to leave the spartan lodgings, as a reminder of the heartlessness of her fellow creatures.

Thankfully, Doctor Lambert seemed more hopeful. "If he goes on well through the next few hours, and no infection sets in, he should make a full recovery," he said, adding, "However, I would strongly advocate moving him from this environment as soon as possible; cold and damp are beneficial to no one, especially a man with a serious wound." Now he was gone, escorted home by Raoul, and Christine found herself floundering without a source of reassurance. Though the doctor appeared initially reluctant, from the moment he had seen the gravity of the situation he treated the Phantom no differently from anyone else he might find in his care; he asked few questions and made no comment on his patient's appearance. Christine was grateful to him for his discretion, and wondered exactly what Madame Giry had told him.

The ballet mistress was snoring in the armchair. Christine wished that she was awake so that she would have someone with whom to discuss her doubts and fears, for Meg was sleeping too, curled up beneath the pale blue covers in the boat-shaped bed where Christine herself had awoken on that fateful morning after the gala performance of _Hannibal_. She could not deny either of them their rest; without their support the events of the last few hours would have culminated in a very different outcome indeed. But still... it was hard not to feel as though she were the only person in the world, like Sleeping Beauty's prince as he approached the enchanted castle only to find himself surrounded by those slumbering like the dead. Despite what passed between them she had had to stop herself racing through the tunnels after Raoul, to desperately beg him for comfort. She needed someone to tell her that everything would be all right; she was frightened that she would not have the strength to face and accept her feelings, that she was still too much the child to cope with the complicated and unpredictable man to whom she found herself inexorably drawn.

Sighing, she turned back to her Angel. Anyone looking at him now would think that Erik was sleeping peacefully. He lay still, his left arm in its sling resting on his chest and his face turned into the pillow; even unconscious he instinctively hid his ravaged features, she thought sadly. His anger had been such that Doctor Lambert was forced to sedate him to prevent him injuring himself further; Christine heard him fight as the drug was administered and her heart clenched in sympathy even though she knew that it was for his own safety. He needed to rest, to heal, however it was obtained. She had never seen him sleep until tonight; when relaxed he looked much younger, the lines of care and suffering around his left eye and his mouth smoothed away. For what seemed like hours she had been content to just watch him breathe, the steady rise and fall of his chest almost hypnotic. She was afraid to look away, in case it stopped.

A log toppled over in the grate, sending sparks shooting up the chimney, startling her and causing Madame Giry to snuffle and stir in her chair. The spell broken, Christine got to her feet and tucked a blanket over the older woman; the ballet mistress did not wake. The clock on the mantelpiece told her that it was nearly five o'clock; in an hour or two the dawn would begin to break, the sun spreading its weak winter rays over the city. It was Sunday morning and the bells would start to chime, calling the faithful to mass. The Opera would be closed, its cast and crew taking their well-deserved break; she could not help but wonder what they would be saying about the previous night's performance and the debacle that followed it. Would the newspapers be full of the fall of _Don Juan_ and the appearance of the Phantom?

It was too quiet in the darkened bedroom. Feeling suddenly restless she took up a candle and tiptoed out into the hallway, peering around the door of the room Erik had prepared for her to find Meg little more than a heap of tumbled golden curls on the pillow. She lingered for a moment, remembering the duck-egg blue of the walls, their white frieze giving the impression of a room crafted from Wedgewood china; the delicate furniture and the wardrobe full of beautiful, elegantly tailored gowns. Passing the dressing table, her reflection flitting across the mirror like a ghost, she ran a finger over the sliver-backed hairbrushes, tracing the engraved C for Christine. He had forgotten nothing, neglected no detail in his quest to please her, and that morning, scared and confused, she had thrown it all back in his face. He had presumed too much, and she did not know how to respond. Reality crushed the fragile fantasy that was their friendship in an instant.

Christine barely noticed that her feet had taken her to the library until she found herself face to face with the monkey music box. It sat there, impassive as ever, watching her with its sightless eyes as it waited for a command to play. On an impulse she lifted it, carrying it back to the bedroom and clearing a space on the nightstand in which to set it down. It had been beside her bed that morning; her sleep had been so deep that Erik's frenzied composing had not caused her to stir, but she awoke to the sound of the monkey's haunting little tune. Wanting to hear something, anything, to break the heavy silence in the air, she wound the handle of the barrel organ and the music box began to play.

"_Masquerade... Paper faces on parade... Hide your face so the world will never find you_..."

There was no strength behind the words, which only heightened their ethereal quality and made it almost seem that the monkey had gained a voice. Christine glanced back to the bed to find that Erik's eyes were open and he was looking at her in wonder. Automatically, she reached out to take hold of his hand, no longer minding the icy chill of his skin.

"I... hope this is real," he whispered hoarsely.

"Does this seem real?" she asked, gently squeezing his fingers as she brought them to her lips.

"You... you're still here." His gaze, still unfocussed from the effects of the drug, settled on her face. "Why did you not leave?"

"I couldn't - " Christine was cut off as he began to cough, and she jumped up, lifting his head and helping him to drink some water. By the time she laid him gently back on the pillows he was frowning, the shadows deepening across his distorted face.

"I don't understand," he said, "You can feel no obligation to me; I wanted to release you, so that you could be happy with your boy."

"My engagement to Raoul is at an end." His eyes widened in surprise, and she quickly added before he could speak, "No matter how many times you send me away, Erik, I will always come back."

He was silent for some time, and she wondered if he had fallen asleep again. At last he said, so quietly she had to strain to hear him, "I think I truly must be dreaming."

"Shh." Christine smoothed his hair; it was a shade lighter than hers, receding slightly and thinning at the temple close to his deformity. "You need to rest."

"No. Not yet." Erik shook his head, the frown still creasing his forehead. "Why would you... why would you want to give him up? All your heart's desires... you could have fulfilled your... your..."

"All my fantasies? I suppose so. Raoul would have climbed into the heavens and brought me the moon and stars if I asked, but there would always have been something lacking."

He was confused, and she couldn't blame him. The laudanum was still clouding his mind. He opened his mouth but could not find the breath to speak.

"Raoul has no music in his soul, Erik," she said gently. "It is deep in mine, entangled in the core of my being just as it is in yours. I tried to turn my back upon it, but like a thirsty man in the desert I just came to crave it even more. What would you do if you had to live without music?"

"Music has been the only... constant in my life," he replied immediately in a faltering voice. "For... for many years it was the only... the only thing that kept me sane. I would... I would die without it."

"If that is so, how could you send me away, condemn me to such a life?" Christine asked.

"Oh, Christine, Christine..." His eyelids were drooping, his hand growing limp in hers, and she knew that he would not be awake much longer. "I am... I am not a good man. I have done many things... many dreadful things that I regret. You... I have not treated you fairly, my dear. I tried to win you the only way I knew how... I deceived you, terrified you, preyed upon your fears. Those were the acts... of a despicable man, Christine, of a monster. I see that now. I cannot... I cannot force you to share my fate... a life of... of unending darkness."

"When you released me, you returned my right to choose for myself." She tightened her grip upon his fingers. "You are changing, Erik, the fact that you regret what you have done shows me that. You do not have to be that man any longer."

"You really... really believe that such a thing is...is possible?" His mismatched eyes shone with hope beneath their heavy lids. She nodded, and he glanced towards Madame Giry; the ballet mistress slumbered on, undisturbed by their conversation. "That would make you... only the second person ever to have seen... seen some worth in this loathsome carcass."

"Please don't speak of yourself that way. Not any more."

He smiled slightly. "Hope for the hopeless...?"

"No," she told him softly. "You could never be that."

"I had a dream..." he murmured, his attention wandering. "I think it was a... dream. What else could it... be?"

"What did you dream, my Angel?" Christine asked.

"I dreamt... I dreamt that you kissed me. It was... such a lovely dream. It made... Erik very happy..."

"That was no dream," she told him, bending her head close to his. "Would you like me to do it again?"

Erik gazed up at her in sleepy wonderment. Without waiting for an answer, Christine leaned in and touched his twisted lips with her own. He was unresponsive for a moment, as if he was unsure what to do; his hand tensed, clenching around her fingers, and then his mouth moved against hers and he was suddenly kissing her back. It was hesitant, unpractised, and unbearably sweet. When she pulled away his eyes were shining with tears.

"Oh, Christine," he breathed, raising the hand she still held to her face. His thumb stroked her cheek. "You... you have no idea how long I have wanted to do... to do that."

"You may do it as many times as you wish," Christine said, knowing that the smile on his face was mirrored on her own.

His were eyes closing, the sedative pulling him under once more. She nearly missed his next words, they were so faint. "...I love you."

"I love you, too," she whispered as he fell still, his breathing calm and even. "Perhaps I always did, I just didn't want to admit it."


	42. The Peasants are Revolting

**THE PEASANTS ARE REVOLTING**

As it was Sunday and the Opera House was closed, Meg had thought it the ideal time to make a quick trip home for a change of clothes and a few essentials.

A check of the little kitchen in the house by the lake confirmed her suspicions that Monsieur le Phantom had next to no interest in food; the cupboards were bare but for half a loaf on the turn and some dried fruit, barely enough to keep a cat alive. Madame Giry clucked her tongue in disapproval as she regarded the pitiful state of the stores, and immediately furnished Meg with a list of items to either fetch from their apartment or buy fresh at the market, a key to the Rue Scribe gate and instructions to make sure she was not seen entering or leaving the building. Rolling her eyes as only a daughter can at her mother's fussing, Meg promised that she would be careful and made her way up the winding staircase to the world above.

It felt good to be back in the sunlight and fresh air. The morning was mild for the time of year, and sight of the blue sky with its scattered drifting clouds immediately lifted her spirits; she was touched by a momentary pang of sorrow for Erik, trapped in his existence of perpetual night, and found herself wondering when he had last felt the sun on his face. Christine had all but committed herself to that dark world, and Meg was worried for her friend. Did Christine truly realise what she would be giving up to be with her Angel? At heart, despite her new-found confidence, Christine was still a child, needing someone to guide and protect her; now she was in the unusual position of having a man who needed her just as much as she did him, if not more; a man who, according to Madame Giry, had gone through more than forty years of life without so much as a loving glance. It would be a daunting prospect for any woman, let alone one of such a delicate nature.

Meg mused on the subject as she went about her errands, filling her basket from stalls which already had plenty of custom despite the early hour. By the time she made her way back across the Place de l'Opera she had a little chicken, vegetables and some fish with which to tempt the appetite of the invalid, as well as a bag of brioche still warm from the oven, whose divine smell was tempting her to sample them immediately. She had not realised how hungry she was until she began browsing the produce on offer; her stomach rumbled embarrassingly and she recalled that she had not eaten since well before the performance the previous evening.

Humming to herself as she crossed the square, heading for the side door to the theatre, she did not register the crowd that had gathered outside the main entrance, spilling over the steps, until she was almost on top of them. Instantly on the alert she pulled back, observing from behind a conveniently-situated lamppost. Scanning faces she was surprised to find that the people sitting or standing around were not irate patrons but her colleagues, the cast and crew of the Populaire. All had their eyes fixed upon a little drama that was being enacted on the top step, and they looked angry, some muttering amongst themselves as three of the burliest stagehands put their shoulders to the heavy doors. There was a notice pasted across the panels, and Meg could just read the words from her vantage point. In big black letters they screamed:

**CLOSED**

**OUT OF BUSINESS.**

"Once more, Pierre, that should do it!" one of the chorus, Alphonse, the baritone, shouted.

Pierre and the others tried again, grimacing with the effort, but the doors held. Two of the dancers ran to help them, but even with their combined strength it was no good; the entrance seemed to have been built to withstand a siege. Wiping his forehead with a big red handkerchief, one of the stagehands looked around, apparently searching for something that could be used as a battering ram, as he pointed to the post behind which Meg was hiding. Fortunately, Pierre shook his head, instead stepping back so that he could see up the face of the building; he reached down and scooped up a handful of gravel, throwing it against one of the windows on the second floor.

There was a pause, and then the window was flung open. Meg started as she recognised the dishevelled head which appeared in the gap. It was Monsieur Andre, and she had never seen him so untidy. His hair stood on end thanks to frustrated fingers and dried pomade, there was the shadow of a beard on his chin and his collar was askew, his tie dangling loose around his throat. He glared down at the gathering on the theatre steps.

"You may as well give up," he declared, the words slurring slightly. "I've had the doors barred."

"You can't do this!" Pierre shouted. "You can't turn everyone out!"

"I have and I will. Now be gone, the lot of you. I've no time to bandy words with the likes of you."

Even from a distance, Meg could see that the kindly scenery-shifter look appalled. "The lads and I have come to collect our cards," he called up to Andre. "That means we expect to be paid up until the end of the week, and if everyone else is on the street, so should they. We have families to feed!"

"That is no concern of mine. If you want your pay you will have to whistle for it," the manager snapped. "There is no money left."

A dangerous rumbling began in the crowd. One or two of the more truculent members of the crew punched fists into palms in a menacing attitude. Meg cautiously abandoned her cover and approached the fringes. Her mother would not approve, but she had to know what was going on; they had clearly missed much while engaged in their own dramas underground. Giselle of the corps de ballet was standing on the sidelines with the secretary, young Monsieur Remy, who was watching the confrontation with anxious eyes, his fingers twisting the chain on his pince-nez almost to breaking point.

"What in the world is happening?" Meg asked, making Giselle jump.

"Mon Dieu – Meg!" the willowy ballerina exclaimed, her hand flying to her heart in one of the over-dramatic gestures to which she was prone. "Where have you _been_? We looked everywhere for you last night!"

"I was at home with Maman; Christine was unwell and needed our help," Meg said, crossing her fingers behind her back and hoping that God would forgive her for the lie.

"Christine? I thought the Phantom got her?" Giselle frowned. "And when I last saw you, you were talking to the vicomte."

"_Was_ that the Phantom?" enquired Alphonse before Meg could respond, evidently overhearing. "He didn't look much like those ridiculous stories the Buquet used to tell."

"Buquet drank too much," one of the other chorus members, a tenor called Marius, put in. "His stories changed from one day to the next. But if that wasn't the Phantom on stage last night, who was it?"

"It wasn't Signor Piangi, that's for sure. No one's seen hide nor hair of him or Carlotta since yesterday."

At the mention of the diva's name, Marius pulled a face. "That's no bad thing. The less we have to see of the Signora, the better! She called my acting wooden, can you believe that? Said she'd seen better from a Punch and Judy man in Covent Garden!"

"What's Punch and Judy?" asked Giselle, looking interested, all thought of Meg's whereabouts the previous night evidently forgotten.

Alphonse shrugged. "Something English. Probably heathen, too. They're all savages over there. Did you know that they - "

Meg was relieved when the window opened again as someone hammered on the doors and Andre's head appeared once more.

"Clear off!" he yelled. "Do you want me to call the police and have you removed by force?"

"We want our money!" shouted one of the carpenters. "Give us what we're owed!"

"Try asking your precious Phantom! With a salary of twenty thousand francs a month he should have a tidy sum!" replied the manager, and he slammed the window so hard the glass rattled in the frame.

"He's drunk," said someone, and there were several murmurs of agreement.

Meg turned to Remy. "Where is Monsieur Firmin?"

The secretary was practically shaking, his face pale and dark circles beneath his eyes. "Gone, I don't know where. The safe was open and empty when I entered the office last night, and I am willing to swear to you, mademoiselle, that it was not so two hours before. I myself saw Monsieur Firmin counting the contents at his desk. After the performance Monsieur Andre had what appeared to me to be a very uncomfortable telephone conversation with the Minister of Arts, and afterwards he sent me away and barricaded himself into the room with a bottle of brandy. He ordered that all the entrances be barred and bolted. I think he's gone mad."

_Not mad_, thought Meg, _just left to face the music by his so-called partner_.

"I don't understand any of this," said Remy, taking out a handkerchief and frantically polishing the lenses of his glasses. "Should_ I_ call the police? Tell them what is happening?"

She rested a reassuring hand on his arm. "Wait for now," she told him. "It may not need to come to that."

He gave a sigh of relief, obviously not wanting the responsibility of being the one to report his superior to the authorities, and nodded, and Meg left him, making her way carefully and quietly around the crowd to reach Pierre, who had stepped away to let some of the other men make a renewed assault upon the doors. She wondered briefly why no one had thought to try the smaller and weaker entrance on the Rue Scribe, but was grateful for it. If they managed to break in and took it into their heads to start combing the theatre for the Phantom, who knew what they might find?

Pierre looked just as surprised to see her as anyone else. "You shouldn't be here, Meg. Half of this lot think your mother is in league with the Phantom, and that you are too by association."

"And the other half?"

"They can't decide what happened last night. Some say OG isn't real, so it couldn't possibly have been him on the stage, and the others..." He shrugged. "No one seems to be able to agree."

"What do you think?" Meg asked. The head scenery-shifter was an astute, sensible man, not prone to flights of fancy.

"I _know_ that I saw a man in a mask, singing with Christine. It wasn't Signor Piangi, certainly, but as to who it was... I have no idea. He seemed to know the stage, disappearing completely like that, but Buquet never mentioned the Phantom wearing a mask, did he? He always talked about a death's head, horrible to behold." Pierre scratched his head. "All I can be certain about is this: before Andre and Firmin arrived the Phantom was good for business. Whether it was a man or a ghost sending those notes, he knew what he was talking about. Those two - " He glanced up towards the office window " – have ruined us completely because they thought they knew better."

Meg's mind was working a mile a minute. "The man last night," she said quickly, "It was Christine's singing teacher. He stepped in at the last minute when Piangi left. The vicomte and his men mistook him for the Phantom."

Pierre frowned. "What was he doing backstage? I didn't see him before the curtain went up."

"Christine asked him to come, but he was running late and the ushers wouldn't let him into the auditorium. Maman took him into the wings so he could watch Christine, and he saw Carlotta walk out. It was a split-second decision to replace the Signor, taken to try and save the performance. He knew the libretto, of course; he's been rehearsing it with Christine for weeks." Meg crossed her fingers again. It was, after all, partly the truth.

"If that's so, how did he know where that trap door in the stage was? I've worked here for fifteen years and I'd never seen it before."

She'd forgotten about that. _Think, Meg_! "It was an accident. He stamped on the floor when he was trying to protect Christine from the gunman in the pit, and it gave way beneath them. The bullet that was fired lodged in his shoulder. That's where I've been, taking him to the hospital with Maman and Christine. She's been frantic with worry."

Pierre did not look as that he entirely believed her, but he nodded. "And the Phantom?"

"The Phantom didn't come," Meg said. "He's no fool; why would he have offered himself up for capture so easily?"

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he made no comment, instead turning to gaze up at the window once more. "We could do with his help," he said after a pause. "He sacked us, you know. Andre. Last night. Me, Jacques and René - we're all out of a job, and he won't let you or your mother into the building under any circumstances. Christine too. I thought he was going to have an apoplexy. Now he's decided to punish us all."

"Battering down the door won't help matters. Why don't you take them all somewhere to calm down and think about what to do next?"

"Are you giving me advice, Little Meg?" Pierre asked, evidently amused.

"Do you _want_ to be arrested?" she countered. "Andre's got access to a telephone up there, and he knows the police commissioner. Don't think he's making idle threats."

The big man blanched. Meg recalled that he had a wife and five children, all under working age but one. If he were to be thrown into the cells it would be a disaster. Turning back to his colleagues, who were readying themselves to try once again to break the doors, he waved his arms, calling for them to stop. Shouts and protests began, both from the stagehands and the rest of the company, words tumbling over one another as everyone strove to make themselves heard.

Meg took that as her cue to disappear.

* * *

><p>She flew back down to the cellars as fast as her legs would carry her.<p>

"Maman! Maman, it's me! Let me in!" she cried, hammering on the concealed door with both fists. After a pause, which seemed interminable, it opened to reveal Madame Giry's startled face. Meg practically threw her basket at her mother and tumbled into the hallway, catching herself on the table when she threatened to end up in a heap on the floor.

"Mon Dieu! Meg, whatever is the matter?" the ballet mistress exclaimed.

"The theatre... closed... we've all been turned off!" Meg struggled to bring her pounding heart under control and breathe regularly.

Madame Giry stared at her in horror. "What? Why? Who has made such a decision?"

"Is Erik awake?" asked Meg, ignoring the question. Her mother nodded, and she hurried off down the hall to the Phantom's bedroom. A light tap on the door gained her permission to enter, and she found the wounded man sitting up against a bank of pillows, being assisted in drinking a cup of tea by Christine. Any doubts that her friend had made the wrong choice began to evaporate as she watched them; Christine was regarding Erik tenderly as she leaned over him, supporting the cup with one hand so that he did not spill it. His face was unmasked, and as Meg came in he turned it away slightly so that the deformed side fell into shadow.

"Mademoiselle Giry," he said, his voice lower and richer than she expected. Even in this situation he had such a regal presence that she had to stop herself instinctively dropping into a respectful curtsy. "I don't believe we have ever actually been introduced."

"No, Monsieur, not officially, but you have been a part of my life for so long that it makes no difference," Meg replied, and he smiled.

"What's the matter, Meg?" asked Christine, taking the teacup and setting it on the nightstand. Madame Giry had followed her daughter into the room and Meg felt a hand on her shoulder; after the tumult of the last couple of days she had to stop herself curling into her mother's comforting embrace.

Taking a deep breath, she related everything she had seen and heard in the world above. Through her recitation she glanced repeatedly at Erik from the corner of her eye and could see his expression darkening, becoming grimmer as the moments passed. Christine's eyes widened in astonishment, her hand almost unconsciously finding her maestro's, seeking reassurance.

"Why would Monsieur Andre do such a thing?" she said, shaking her head incredulously. "And Monsieur Firmin! To take so much money...!"

"Is Andre still in the office?" Erik asked sharply.

"He was when I left," Meg replied. "Remy said he had locked himself in."

There was a brief moment of silence, and then the Phantom nodded, determination in the lines of his gaunt face. "Help me up. We have work to do."


	43. The Final Performance of the Opera Ghost

**THE FINAL PERFORMANCE OF THE OPERA GHOST**

"Erik, what are you doing? You can't get up yet!" Christine exclaimed as he threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

He reached out his good hand and braced it on the nightstand, pushing himself slowly to his feet. His arm trembled with the effort, and he stood quite still for several moments with his eyes closed, just gathering his strength. "I've no choice," he said at last, letting go of the table for a moment to take up his mask; he wobbled alarmingly without the support and so Christine lifted it, placing it gently over his distorted cheek and securing it behind his ear. "I can't let those fools bring down my theatre."

"Christine is right, Erik," Madame Giry told him, but he took no notice, shuffling to the end of the bed with the help of its solid mahogany frame and looking around as though he had lost something. Sighing, Christine fetched his oriental robe from where it hung on the back of the door and wrapped it around his shoulders. "You are not well enough for this. How do you expect to make it all the way to the managers' office in your condition?"

The Phantom shrugged his good arm through the sleeve and thrust his feet into the velvet house shoes Meg brought; they had been warming before the fire. Watching him, Christine could only think how human he appeared, standing there in dressing gown and slippers, his hair still mussed from sleep; he would never, _could_ never appear ordinary for there was nothing ordinary about him, but just at that moment he looked... normal, frighteningly so. "There is a quicker route that bypasses the lake. Antoinette, I need you to do something for me."

Madame rolled her eyes, and folded her arms. "We all risked much to save your life last night. Would you throw all our effort away?"

"Annie." He met her gaze steadily, his pale face quite serious. "Would _you_ allow Andre and Firmin between them to rob everyone in the Opera of their livelihoods? Some of my actions of late may have been morally suspect to say the least, but even I would not punish the entire company for the mistakes of a handful of people!"

"And what of the chandelier, Erik?" Madame Giry asked sharply. "What of the six months it took to restore the structure of the building and repair the damage you caused? I suppose you have forgotten that, holed up as you were down here with your music and your misery!"

Erik's spine stiffened at the accusation. "Did any of you suffer in my absence? Were any of you harmed, out of work, left to struggle?"

They glared at each other, locked in a stalemate, for some moments, before Meg said quietly,

"He's right, Maman. What will we do if we lose our jobs? Where will we go?"

Christine's hand flew to her mouth; she had not considered the consequences for all of them until that moment. They would be on the street; what little her father left had been taken by the expenses of his funeral and she could not afford even her tiny apartment without her salary from the theatre. The recent scandals and her current notoriety would make it virtually impossible for her to find another position; no one would take a singer with her reputation, however undeserved that reputation might be. Had she still been engaged to Raoul it would not matter, but now...

"Whatever happens, Little Giry, you will be looked after," Erik said, surprising them all, including, judging from the expression on his face, himself. "You have my word on that, for what it is worth."

Meg stared at him, open mouthed, for a few seconds. "Thank you," she managed to say, before her mother began to protest.

Erik cut across her. "I will not see you starve, Annie, you know that," he said. "God knows you sometimes try my patience to the limit, and I have not yet forgiven you for removing my mask in the presence of that doctor, but...but..." Struggling for the words, he glanced at Christine and she smiled encouragingly. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You are... the closest thing I have ever had to a family and you will always have my protection."

There was a long pause, during which Meg anxiously glanced at her mother and Christine felt a desire to start chewing her fingernails, a habit that had been drummed out of her soon after she joined the corps de ballet. Erik watched, his visible features as impassive as his mask, trying not to make it obvious that he was leaning against the bedpost more heavily than before.

Eventually, Madame Giry sighed and threw up her hands in defeat. "Very well. What do you want me to do?"

* * *

><p>It was a long journey to the upper levels of the theatre, even if the route they took avoided their having to use the boat. Erik had to stop and rest at regular intervals, the many stairs sapping his dwindling reserves of strength and energy. Every time he paused to regain his breath Christine asked him if he was all right, whether he wanted to go back, and every time he would insist that he was fine. She knew that Doctor Lambert would have a fit if he could see what his patient was up to, but it was quite clear that trying to stop Erik when he was determined to do something was like Canute attempting to hold back the tide so she did what she could by making sure he was well wrapped up against the chill of the cellars and giving him as much support as possible when he faltered.<p>

She had never been in any of the smaller tunnels before; these were much narrower than those she was used to, barely big enough for two, and she guessed that they ran between some of the walls, allowing him to flit from room to room and observe what was happening within. He led her carefully through the dusty, cobwebbed passages, and she covered her nose, trying desperately not to sneeze. At last they stopped, and Erik flipped aside a small section of the wall to reveal a peephole; he looked through it for a moment, and then stood aside, gesturing for her to do the same.

Christine had to stand on tiptoe, but by squinting she could see into the room beyond. Usually so neat and tidy when Remy was in charge of affairs, the office was a shambles. Empty bottles stood all over the desk, the wastepaper basket was overflowing with balls of crumpled paper and books had been pulled from the shelves only to be tossed aside with no consideration for their age or value. Monsieur Andre sat in his chair, sprawled over the memorandum book which lay open on the desk before him, and he was snoring loudly, an empty glass in one hand.

"Where are we?" she asked Erik in a whisper.

"Behind the inferior Degas copy that hangs to the left of the fireplace," he replied, equally sotto voce. "I've often found it a convenient vantage point in the past."

She stepped back. "So I can see."

"This is so strange," Erik mused. He glanced at her, only his eyes illuminated by the thin shaft of light which fell through the hole. "You are the first person ever to have entered these passages apart from myself."

"I am honoured." Christine smiled and asked cheekily, "Does that make me Madame OG now?"

That mismatched gaze widened briefly in surprise and she wondered when she had become so bold around him. Goodness, she had sounded just like Meg for a moment! Was it the knowledge that she had come so close to losing him that suddenly made her want to grasp at every chance, throw caution to the winds? He did not answer, returning his attention to the office and the man sleeping there, and she realised that she may have been a little too forward.

Softly at first, but with increasing volume, he began to sing. There were no words, only a melody which he wove effortlessly with just that beautiful, otherworldly voice. Even when not directed at her, Christine was moved by the power of it; he had the ability to lift the heart and soul to a heavenly realm, or just as effortlessly turn the blood to ice and send ghostly fingers creeping down the spine. She did not recognise the tune and supposed that he was creating it as he sang, composing as natural to him as breathing.

It had the desired effect. Andre started awake, staring around him with eyes as round as saucers. His hair was flattened on one side and there were ink marks down his left cheek. "Who's there?" he demanded querulously. "Show yourself!"

"Impossible," said Erik, throwing his voice to the opposite side of the room.

"Unthinkable," he added, this time from the corner by the door.

"Unlikely," came the conclusion, from beneath the desk. Andre jumped, bending down to look and crawling right under the piece of furniture to reappear on the other side, popping up like a jack-in-the-box.

"Where are you?" he asked, his gaze flicking about wildly.

"Everywhere," Erik replied from the ceiling. "Am I not a ghost?"

"Dear God." The manager reached for the one cognac bottle which still contained some liquor and hugged it to his chest. "I thought you were gone. They _shot_ you!"

Erik laughed, a demonic chuckle that almost made Christine's hair stand on end. The sound brought back memories of a croaking Carlotta and a dangerously unstable chandelier. "Did you really think that bullets could touch me? Spectres fear no earthly weapon, Monsieur."

"Have you returned just to torment me?" Andre squeaked.

"That depends." The voice blew through the office like a chill wind.

"On what?"

"On you, and your cooperation."

Timidly, Andre climbed back into his chair, still clutching the bottle. Christine felt sorry for him. He had gone along with Raoul's plans, it was true, but he had always been the one with misgivings, joining in reluctantly. Firmin's eye was constantly on the profits, determined to make as much out of the unsuspecting patrons as he could, but Andre seemed to have more of a love for the arts, and concern for the company. She was sure he would not be behaving in such a way now had he not been driven to it. Murmuring in his ear, she said as much to Erik. For a moment it seemed that he might disregard her and take out his anger upon the hapless manager, but then he nodded.

"The cast and crew," he said. "You will reinstate them with immediate effect."

"Impossible! There is no money left with which to pay them," Andre replied. His chin sank onto his chest and his tone became maudlin. "I have been cheated too. And to think I trusted that man with my life's savings..."

"There will be money, enough to cover the salary of every member of the company until new management is found for the theatre." When the manager gawped and began to speak Erik added, "This money will be provided for the staff and _only_ for them. You are to take nothing for yourself, do you understand me? If I discover that one sou has gone missing I will find you, Monsieur, have no doubt of that."

Andre nodded dumbly.

"Good. If you go to Box Five on the Grand Tier you will find an envelope containing thirty thousand francs. You will leave in exchange the memorandum book I see there upon the desk and all copies of the theatre accounts, as well as any notes of mine which you may have preserved. If I do not see those books, the money will vanish. Do you agree?"

"What - " The manager's voice wobbled, and he cleared his throat. "What do I receive in return?"

"Why, your life, Monsieur," Erik told him silkily. "And the knowledge that you have done the right thing."

"I had no idea you were such a philanthropist, Monsieur Opera Ghost." Andre sounded bitter. He poured the last of the brandy into a glass and swallowed it in one gulp.

"We all have hidden depths, do we not? You had best hurry – the mob outside are I believe very close to finding the structural weakness in the main doors and I would not like to be in your shoes should they get to you first." Turning away, Erik allowed his final words to linger in the room: "Adieu, Monsieur. We shall not meet again."

* * *

><p>"It worked! It worked!"<p>

Meg came rushing into the room as Christine was helping Erik settle back into bed. His face was ashen grey, there was a cold sweat on his forehead and his limbs were trembling; she had no idea how he had made it all the way back down to the fifth cellar without collapsing. Gleefully, Meg deposited the books onto the coverlet, virtually on top of Erik's feet; Madame Giry tutted and swept them up just in time.

"Did you see what happened afterwards?" Christine asked, tucking the blankets over her exhausted maestro. Erik smiled weakly in thanks.

"I followed him back up to the office, which wasn't easy as he was looking over his shoulder all the way," Meg said. "You must have put the fear of God into him."

"Not God, just the fear of the Phantom, which was quite enough. What did he do?"

"Opened the window and made an announcement. I couldn't see much through the keyhole, but I think he put the money in the safe and locked it."

"Spying through keyholes... shame on you, Meg!" Madame Giry scolded.

Meg looked innocent, her hands clasped behind her back. "I believe it's not much different to listening at doors, Maman."

Her mother fixed her with a stern glare but Christine did not miss the ballet mistress's lips twitching. Oblivious to all of this, Erik lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes. "Well, it's done," he said. "Now OG can rest his weary head."

"Oh, don't you want to know how the company reacted?" Meg asked in surprise. "I stayed until I was sure that - "

Madame Giry exchanged a glance with Christine, and they both looked at the Phantom. Cocooned in blankets, Erik seemed to be asleep already. "Later, Meg," she said, taking her daughter by the arm and turning her towards the door. "Let's go and see what we can make of the results of your shopping expedition. I think we could all do with something to eat before the doctor arrives."

"But, Maman - "Meg's expression was confused, but she allowed herself to be led from the room. As the door closed behind them, Christine gave a gentle sigh of relief and sat down on the edge of the bed. She reached over to remove Erik's mask, and his eyes opened, his body tensing immediately when he felt the feather light touch of her fingers brushing his face.

"I wanted to make you more comfortable," she explained, and after a beat he relaxed, releasing the breath he had been holding.

"I still can't believe that you don't run away at the sight of me," he said quietly. "You should, you know."

She set the mask aside, and took his hand. "It doesn't scare me, not any more. Your anger was always far more terrifying than your face."

"I'm sorry. I never wanted to frighten you."

"I'm frightened now," she admitted, and he looked horrified. "Oh, no, not like that! I'm frightened because this is all so new and strange... I suppose I'm scared of the unknown, that I might do something wrong, disappoint you in some way."

Erik was silent for some moments, and she found herself wanting to bite her nails again. "If that's the case, then I'm frightened too," he said eventually. "You could never disappoint me, Christine. If anything, _I'm_ scared I might not be good enough for you."

"Never!" she cried, and relief flitted across his uneven features. How different and fascinating it was to be able to see both sides of his face, to read his expressions clearly for the first time! A tiny, inappropriate giggle rose up in her chest. "It seems that neither of us has much idea what to do. We can be terrified together."

"How the mighty have fallen." He looked down at their joined hands, his thumb stroking her knuckles. A rueful smile touched his lips. "You see the influence you have over me?"

"I promise to use it only for good," she told him, adding, "I'm proud of you." He glanced up, bewilderment in his heavy-lidded eyes. "You didn't have to help them, but you chose to, and for that I thank you."

Erik sighed. "They bore no blame for any of this. Why should they be punished? If anyone knows about injustice, it is I." His gaze slid across to the door through which Madame Giry had vanished. "Someone once told me that I would know I had truly joined the human race when I could feel guilt. I have much to atone for."

"The fact that you admit it is the first step." Christine gently brushed his hair back from his forehead. His eyes closed, the lashes fluttering as he fought against the instincts of his exhausted body. "But now, my Angel, you need to sleep."

"Will you... will you stay?" he asked. His fingers tightened around hers and it was almost the plea of a child after a nightmare, desperate for someone to chase away the shadows.

She leaned forward, and softly pressed her lips to his distorted cheek. "Until you are better."

"And then..?"

"And then we'll see," she said, and he nodded, his head falling to one side as the exertion of climbing so many stairs caught up with him. He looked quite innocent; there was a gentle smile on his face, turning up one corner of his twisted lips, and Christine found herself smiling too.

_Fear _can_ turn to love_...

* * *

><p><strong><span>Author's Note:<span>**

****Just the epilogue left!


	44. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE:**

**SO WHAT HAPPENS NOW?**

It was nearly two weeks before Erik felt strong enough to leave his bed for more than half an hour at a time.

Determined that his convalescence should be as swift and comfortable as possible, Madame Giry insisted that he follow the doctor's instructions and leave the unhealthy atmosphere of the cellars to stay with her and Meg for as long as it took for him to recuperate. Erik had protested, loudly and at great length, and Christine did not miss the fear and anxiety which flared in his eyes at the prospect of leaving his sanctuary for the harsh light of the outside world, but eventually he was worn down by the ballet mistress's arguments and gave in, albeit reluctantly and with bad grace. She had taken his declaration that he saw them as his family to heart and in her no-nonsense manner had practically adopted him; once he left his underground home he would cease to be the Opera Ghost, becoming instead Madame Giry's cousin and Christine's music teacher, Erik Claudin, a struggling composer from Normandy. Meg was already busy concocting a story to explain away the mask.

The Opera remained closed, the company resting on full pay. So many scandals had hit the Populaire since the advent of the new management that no one seemed inclined to take on a theatre with such a catalogue of disasters to its name. Within days of the _Don Juan_ fiasco, the newspapers were declaring that the Phantom had been a creation of Andre and Firmin, a way of drawing in the crowds and making more money for them to embezzle. There never had been a maniac stalking the corridors, declared one; the unfortunate death of Buquet and the failure of the chain anchoring the chandelier occurring on the same night put an opportunity in their way that they could not resist. What better way to ensure publicity for the reopening of the theatre than to blame the accidents upon a legend, a man who may or may not be a supernatural being? They had managed to make all of Paris agog with tales of the Phantom, and somehow persuaded the Vicomte de Chagny, brother of the theatre's principal patron, to assist them in their schemes. Comte Philippe had been swift to sever all ties with the Populaire, and there were rumours that it had been his words in the ear of the Minister of Arts which secured Andre's arrest for fraud in Firmin's absence. He was currently being questioned, but no one really expected a charge to be made as there was little evidence due to the mysterious disappearance of all the relevant paperwork. It was a situation which completely flummoxed poor Remy, whose responsibility it was to ensure all books and accounts were up to date. The assumption was made that Firmin had taken with him all the documentation which might point towards his having his hand in the till.

Christine was in some way relieved that the journalists blamed the managers entirely, claiming that Raoul was entangled in their plots through his own naivety; it was better he be thought of as too trusting than the orchestrator of the plans, and he had not corrected the reporters, though he did write a spirited letter to _La Monde_, defending her reputation and artistic integrity, categorically denying that she had used her feminine wiles to obtain his involvement in the hoax. She sent him a note, thanking him for his words, and received a reply which brought tears to her eyes: he needed a distraction to help him bear the loss of her love, he said, and with his brother's blessing had decided to join the navy. Echoing the aria which had first brought them together after so many years, he hoped that she might think of him sometimes, for there would never be a day when his thoughts would not turn to her. Erik, awkward but learning fast, did not enquire as to the contents of the letter, merely held her and stroked her hair until she cried herself out.

It appeared that stories were circulating, some too accurate for comfort, others with barely a grain of truth, like Chinese whispers. Even those who had been present at both disastrous performances could not agree on a version of events; some claimed that they had both seen and heard a man far above before the chandelier fell, others that it had all been a ruse to create drama and that La Carlotta was also part of it for why else would she have left so suddenly? Many were unsure whether the presence of the firemen and armed guards had been part of the plot of _Don Juan Triumphant_; one man who remained in his seat throughout even declared that it was the most exciting show he had ever seen, and was only let down by a weak and confused ending. He still wanted to know whether the Don finally bedded the lovely Aminta. Christine was not sure whether to laugh or cry when she heard this. She tactfully avoided showing any of the articles to Erik for fear that his temper might cause a relapse.

Now they made their slow way to the upper levels of the theatre, Meg and Christine taking it in turns to punt the gondola across the lake, Erik sitting in the stern with his travelling bag and grumbling that the boat had not been designed for three and would probably capsize before they made the opposite shore. Madame Giry met them at the mirror, and soon they stood upon the battered stage, looking out across the darkened auditorium, respectfully silent as the former Phantom prepared to leave the only home he had known for more than a decade. Christine was beside him, her arm through his, allowing him to lean on her without seeming to for he had his pride and did not wish to seem weak, even to her. He insisted upon dressing properly in his usual immaculate suit and polished shoes, the sling hidden by his heavy cloak and his fedora tilted across his face. They were the clothes of the Opera Ghost, but though the man wearing them still had the grace and poise of the Phantom the madness and danger which dogged his steps was gone, for the moment at least.

"Where do we go from here?" Christine wondered sadly, "No manager, no patronage... Who will take up the baton if no one is willing to invest?"

"The Opera Nationale?" suggested Meg, only half serious.

Madame Giry gave an unladylike snort. "Not with their ballet in such a shambles."

"And they have a soprano who should have retired seasons ago," added Erik. "She is more tenacious than La Carlotta."

"Someone told me she has a voice like a goose farti - " Meg began, but stopped at a glare from her mother. She grinned when Erik, uncharacteristically, laughed out loud.

"Your informant was quite correct," he said. "No doubt they heard her Queen of the Night. A foghorn could have sung it better."

"Erik," Christine chided gently, though she could not help smiling. His laugh sounded wonderful, rich and deep and so different from the maniacal cackle that had scared her on the night of _Il Muto_. She tugged lightly on his sleeve. "I mean it. What will become of the Populaire?"

His gaze ran around the grand tier, over the gilded swags and figures illuminated by the weak sunlight that filtered through the atrium, halting at last on Box Five, shrouded in its customary shadow. "No doubt someone will be brave enough to take it on."

"Are you sad to be leaving?" she asked.

There was a pause, and then he sighed. "This building has seen some of the best and worst moments of my life. There are those which should make me wish to turn my back upon it forever, but others, such as that day I first saw you and heard you sing... I would stay for that moment alone. I can still see your face, streaked with tears for your father, and the grey dress you wore. The lace was fraying at the cuff."

"I was barely out of mourning," Christine recalled. "I only had two good dresses. You were watching, even then?"

"Even then. I have probably never told you this, but you awoke something in me; your voice restarted a heart that I had long since believed was dead and cold. Because of that, though I may be leaving for a short time, I will return."

Christine glanced down at the carpet bag which sat at their feet, a bag far too small to hold his worldly possessions. She thought of the house by the lake, a place she had come to love but which he had called both a dungeon and a prison. "Is this not the perfect chance to escape, to - "

"Christine," he said, slipping his arm from hers and taking her hand, raising it to his lips. "I will return because of _you_."

"But - "

"Do you not want to step out onto this stage again, as Prima Donna in your own right?" Leading her towards the footlights, his stride unsteady but growing stronger all the time, he released her fingers for a moment to sweep out his arm, a grand gesture which encompassed the entire auditorium. "I can see you now, as Violetta... Desdemona... Marguerite - "

"Carmen!" Meg put in, ruining the moment.

Christine had to bite her lip to stop herself laughing. "Carmen is a mezzo," she said. "You might as well ask me to sing Amneris in _Aida_!"

"I think you could pull it off." Meg looked at Erik for support. "Don't you?"

Erik raised an eyebrow. "I think I would prefer her not to ruin her voice after all the work we put in to it," he said. "What do you say, Christine? Do you want to reach for those dizzying heights?"

She stood there with him, her gaze moving across the empty seats as she saw again in her mind's eye the bright lights and the many faces which confronted her that first night in _Hannibal_. It all seemed so long ago; it had been both terrifying and exhilarating and she could still feel the way her heart had been beating so hard that she thought it might burst out of her heavily-jewelled bodice. If she listened hard she could hear the shouts and the applause as the audience rose to its feet almost as one to give her a standing ovation. And afterwards, the ghostly voice of her teacher praising her... Whatever had happened, however many deceptions and misunderstandings there had been on the way, without Erik she would still be in the back row of the ballet chorus, waiting for an opportunity that might never have come.

_Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade, they have their seasons so do we..._

"More than anything," she said, and he smiled.

"The Populaire will rise again," he told her, and she believed him. "And you will sing, my Angel of Music, I promise you that. After all, who knows the Opera better than its Phantom?"

* * *

><p><strong><span>Author's Note:<span>**

So there you have it!

Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, favourited or alerted this story. I'm so glad you've all enjoyed it, and I have begun work on a sequel which I hope to begin posting next week. I do hope you'll continue to follow Erik and Christine's trials and tribulations.

Thanks again! :)


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